


The Waste Land

by ashestodusters



Series: The Shadows We Hide [2]
Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Feels, Blood and Injury, Canon Asexual Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Daud is not ok, Depression, Explicit Language, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Low Chaos (Dishonored), Low Chaos Corvo Attano, Low Chaos Daud, Mute Corvo Attano, Original Character(s), Post-Low Chaos Ending, Royal Spymaster Daud (Dishonored), Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, So much angst, Street Kids, Suicidal Thoughts, there is also fluff i promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-03
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-10-27 10:01:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10806858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashestodusters/pseuds/ashestodusters
Summary: In which Daud:Buys a vineyardAdopts a street kidFinds peace with himselfAnd somehow ends up Royal Spymaster





	1. Prelude - 1837

**Author's Note:**

> So now I've made the mistake of playing the DLC's and this got a bit out of hand.  
> But hey, grouchy assassin is the best type of assassin.  
> So here's a Daud angst fest!  
> I'm so sorry.

The Waste Land

 

Redux

Such Sweet Destruction We Have Wrought, Such Regret

~’*’~*~’*’~*~’*’~*~’*’~*~’*’~*~’*’~*~’*’~*~’*’~*~’*’~*~’*’~*~’*’~*~’*’~*~’*’~*~’*’~*~’*’~

In which Daud:

Buys a vineyard

Adopts a street kid

Finds peace with himself

And somehow ends up Royal Spymaster

 

~’*’~

1837

~’*’~

_6 th Day, Month of Seeds, 1837_

_I thought leaving Dunwall and my old life behind would be easy. Initially it was, laughably so._

_Slipped out in the dead of night, taking to the shadows as an old friend, transversing past Whalers at their posts like a ghost, like Corvo had earlier that very same day._

_Back then I had been confident that the Whalers would be fine with my second, Thomas, taking over leadership, so I packed quickly and light, taking only a few precious books and enough money to buy passage to Serkonos and a vineyard there, as I had always foolishly dreamed. I left Thomas with every penny of Burrow’s cursed coin that to do with as he saw fit, I still have no doubt he will put it to better use than I ever could._

_I left my gear too, arrogantly; foolishly, taking only the knife I had arrived with as homage to my former title, what was the Knife of Dunwall without a blade but a target? Did I really think it could be that easy to leave a life of death behind?_

_It is only now, halfway across the sea to the only other place I have ever called home, that dark thoughts are sinking their wretched claws deeper into me. Not because I left, that fate had been sealed the moment Corvo stupidly spared me; no, for leaving without saying a proper farewell. For as much as I tried to remain detached and aloof, the older I got the more I realised that in a way the Whalers had become more to me than subordinates, Outsider knows many of them, especially the young ones, in some bizarre and twisted fashion, considered me a father._

_It was the last thing I had expected when I picked the first strays up off the streets, but the Whalers became a family of sorts, held together with discipline and luck, yes, but also trust, and I have just betrayed them, abandoned them._

_Now my impending arrival in Serkonos has a bitter taste._

~’*’~

9th Day, Month of Seeds, 1837

The first step onto the solid land of Serkonos should have been a relief, a lifting of the weight.

It isn’t.

The port of Cullero is bustling with life. It’s overwhelming after weeks at sea with only the company of a few sailors. The heat is overwhelming too, under the mid-day sun as Serkonos approaches the hottest period of the year, sweat breaks out immediately.

Slowly he shuffles into the crowd on the dock, eyes scanning for an escape route into a quieter area. Off to the side, he spots a promising looking alleyway and immediately starts heading towards it, moving through groups of people with an ease brought on by years of stealth.

The alley is blessedly calm and cool compared to the docks and at the other end he can see that it thankfully opens onto a quiet street.

Unfortunately the alleyway is also home to an unlucky street rat who tries their luck at snagging his money pouch. Muscle memory kicks in before he has time to think and the kid finds themselves on the ground with his knife at their throat in seconds. In the moments it takes to pull himself out of the instinct to kill he has seen the monster that is the Knife of Dunwall reflected in the kid’s terrified eyes.

Horrified, he pulls himself away and staggers to the end of the alleyway to throw up, leaving the kid gasping in relief behind him. He hadn’t killed another human being since the Empress, but now he knows that the urge and the will to murder are still there, engrained in him just under the skin.

And it’s taken him less than an hour to spectacularly mess up.

“Are you alright mister?”

Turning in surprise he spots the street kid, a girl, barely ten years old by the looks of her, clothes ragged and filthy, her hair messily tucked up into a cap, sleeves of a jacket too long for her covering fragile wrists. If it weren’t for the feminine bone structure of her face he could have easily mistaken her for a boy, which was probably the point, being a boy was the likely best protection she would have on the streets.

“Am _I_ alright?” He chokes out under his breath in disbelief. What in the Void is the kid doing? She should have been running from terror, but there she was, stood a cautious distance away, observing him with a tilted head. “What the fuck kid?”

“Language.” The chastisement is exactly the last thing he expected her to say. A moment passes then she nods to herself and to his bemusement offers a hand to shake. “I’m Amelia.” He finds himself taking the proffered hand in his confusion.

“Daud,” he offers in reply, not quite knowing why he gives her his name.

“Are you alright Mr. Daud?” He doesn’t correct her assumption that Daud is his last name, it was a mistake to give his name in the first place, but maybe having it as a surname will convince anyone looking for him that they have the wrong man.

“I’m fine,” he bites out if only to get her off his back. He desperately wants to be alone.

“If you say so Mr. Daud sir,” the kid replies sounding utterly unconvinced, “if you’re wanting a place to stay, the King’s Keys ‘round the corner’s pretty cheap, and the owner ain’t a crook like others are.”

Daud nods, still trying to process the events of the last few minutes and leaves the alley, shaken and confused. The kid doesn’t try to follow him.

He ends up staying at the King’s Keys anyway.

~’*’~

_18 th Day, Month of Timber, 1837_

_It’s taken longer than I expected but I’ve finally found a vineyard and someone willing to sell it. Cullero isn’t as bad as Dunwall but it’s got its fair share of corruption and most of my subtle enquiries have hit dead ends._

_This man though, Higgins, actually is selling. The vineyard was his father’s from what I can gather, and it’s been empty since the man died nearly ten years ago. Higgins has no interest in it in any case but I can understand him not wanting it left to fall into ruin._

_We’ve arranged a meeting in three days’ time to hash out the final details, but it looks as though I’m going to have coin to spare._

_Which is good because I keep spending it on that Void damned street kid._

_I don’t know if she’s following me or if it’s just the Outsider playing an elaborate practical joke but I keep spotting her at the side of the street hungrily eyeing up the market sellers and I keep ending up buying her food just to get that desperate look off her face._

_But then she stopped eating them straight away, instead tucking them away and running off. I followed her once all the way out to a ruined farmstead in the countryside outside Cullero only to find her sharing it with another kid who must be her brother because there’s an uncanny resemblance there._

_It doesn’t take a Natural Philosopher to see that the boy’s sick._

_I approached loudly, stepping deliberately on a twig to announce my presence. The girl was immediately defensive until she spotted me and relaxed just as quickly as she had bristled._

_“Oh, it’s just you Mr. Daud.”_

_Not an inch of fear in her. Astonishing._

_Somehow I ended up correcting her form, and then going back again the next week and teaching her more. I always did enjoy teaching and Void knows she needs to be able to defend herself because one day it won’t be me stalking towards them. She’s too trusting._

_I still don’t understand how anyone can look at me without fear._

_Next time I see her, I’ll make sure to buy her enough food for two._

~’*’~

22nd Day, Month of Timber, 1837

He’s just making his way back to the inn with the deeds to the vineyard tucked safely away in his pocket when he hears the quiet sobbing coming from the alleyway.

He debates about ignoring it but in the end curiosity wins out and he ducks between the houses, lets his eyes take a moment to adjust to the light.

It’s the kid, the one that tried to steal his money pouch he arrived, his little shadow.

She’s tucked herself into a corner, curled into a ball, head buried in her sleeves, trying desperately to muffle her tears. For a moment he thinks that she’s been hurt, or even taken advantage off, and an unholy rage builds up inside him. It takes another moment for him to spot the tiny body laid beside her, still and stiff in death’s embrace.

He doesn’t need to move closer to know whose body it is, he recognises the clothes her brother was wearing.

Fuck.

She sniffles and glances up; freezing when she spots him in the mouth of alley, then hurriedly wipes away her tears with her cuff, succeeding only in smearing more dirt across her cheeks, as she lifts her knife.

“Stay back!” Her small voice trembles, even as she drops into the defensive stance he taught her. He’s quietly impressed.

“It’s just me,” he fumbles for a moment as he tries to remember her name, was it Cecelia, Millie, no wait, “Amelia.” A frown graces her tearstained face.

“Mr. Daud?” The knife drops a little with her stance and he takes advantage of the distraction even as he makes a note to talk to her about the dangers of letting down your guard. In a heartbeat he has twisted the blade out of her hand and lifted her easily into his arms.

For a moment she squirms as she tries to work out what happened, then she is melting into his embrace, burying her head in his coat, taking whatever comfort she can.

It isn’t until he starts to walk back towards the road that she realises his intent. Then she’s kicking and screaming, fighting to get away, but his grip is firm, he’s used to restraining people much stronger than her.

“No! Let me go you pig! Please, no, Sebastien!”

He manages to detangle an arm to press her head back into his coat to stifle her choked cries as they emerge back into the street. They get a few cautious glances from passers-by but no one dares to approach which suits him just fine.

By the time they get back to the inn the sun is setting and Amelia has fallen into a troubled sleep, he had let her make as much fuss as she wanted, beating his chest with fists hard enough to leave bruises, working herself into exhaustion. Entering the inn he is faced with more suspicious glances but his dangerous glare is enough to convince the barkeep against commenting and the other patrons of the pub give him a wide berth as he makes for the stairs.

Amelia is settled amongst the blankets on the bed, the room secured, and then he is vanishing back out into the night.

Sebastien’s body is thankfully untouched and far too light when he lifts the boy in his arms just as he had done his sister. He carries the tiny form out into the countryside, down to the river where he had taught Amelia to defend herself. He finds a small barn at the end of a nearby field that looks sturdy enough to keep out the wolves and lays the body down gently onto the straw, reaching out and tendering closing unseeing eyes.

The moon is high when he silently slips back into his room at the inn; Amelia is still laid in his bed.

He sits in the small armchair in the corner of the room and falls into an uneasy sleep.

~’*’~

_25 th Day, Month of Timber, 1837_

_How in the Void do I keep picking up strays?_

_Amelia woke angry and shouting as I had expected, but what took her hours the day before only took minutes that morning and soon her screaming merged into crying. I let her get it out and when she was in a state to think rationally again explained that I had taken her brother somewhere safe._

_I would have burned the boy’s body had I known that that was what Amelia’s family did, but I know that different people like to do different things and I didn’t want to be disrespectful. The Whalers had burned the dead, but I know that some people prefer to bury them, or take them out into the wild and let nature take its course._

_The decision was Amelia’s to make._

_When she had calmed down I took her out to the barn. She hesitating upon seeing her brother’s body again, but quietly requested that he be buried after only a few minutes of silent mourning._

_We dug the grave together, at the base of the oak tree._

_I wonder if everything good I touch is doomed to die._

_When we had arrived back into Cullero I had expected her to vanish into the crowd, but when I glanced back she was there a few steps behind me. Catching my gaze she had sheepishly rubbed the back of her neck before quietly murmuring:_

_“I ain’t got anywhere else to go Mr. Daud.”_

_The next thing I know I’m offering a traitorous hand out to her and she’s taking it and now I seem to be stuck with her. I can practically hear the black-eyed bastard laughing._

_Why is it always me?_

~’*’~

1st Day, Month of Songs, 1837

It is on the sixth day of trudging across the Serkonan countryside towards the vineyard he now owns that Daud spots it and comes to an abrupt halt. Behind him, he hears Amelia do the same. The kid’s been subdued since they left Cullero but still doesn’t seem inclined to leave him so he’s resigned himself to scavenging and hunting fresh food for two. He might be able to cope with dried fruit and crackers but the kid needs a proper diet.

The hare bounces happily across the road in front of them.  Deciding that it would make a few good meals and at least put a bit of weight on Amelia’s bones because the kid was still way too skinny he dropped effortlessly into a hunting stance, twirling the blade in his hands. He stalked soundlessly towards the unaware hare, Amelia wisely choses to stay where she is, completely still.

The knife slides easily into the creatures neck, life ended fast and clean, just as Daud had always preferred. Hot blood spatters across his hand.

Then suddenly he is looking into the wide eyes of the Empress as her hands claw at his biceps, trying to push him away. His sword glides between ribs and the Empresses blood stains his gloves, some of it splashes onto his face. It’s a brutal, messy kill, completely unlike him. He tastes iron in his mouth, feels her accusing eyes on him, and suddenly he is drowning in a river of blood.

_YOU KILLED ME. YOU KILLED ME. YOU KILLED ME._

A cold chill rushes over him, his breath catches, heart stutters.

The dead eyes of the hare reflect his own and he promptly turns away and loses the contents of his stomach in retching sobs.

“Mr. Daud? Are you alright?” Amelia is kneeling beside him, a hand on his shoulder, her small form obscures the sight of dead animal.

“I’m fine,” he croaks out as his stomach finally settles and his throat stings. He moves back to the hare but the feeling returns the moment his eyes fall upon the lifeless creature and he has to turn away again.

“Shit,” he gasps as he tries to hold himself together.

“Language,” Amelia’s scolds seems almost automatic and he finds himself weakly chuckling, “what’re you gonna do with it?” Daud hesitates but he already knows.

“You have it all, kid.” She looks doubtful. “You need it more than me.”

Amelia gives him another long hard look before shrugging apathetically and moving to deal with the carcass. He’s inordinately glad that her life on the streets has taught her how to prepare food like this. Shaking hands clean his knife for what he knows will be the last time, he won’t, can’t, kill anymore. He’ll have to teach Amelia to hunt instead.

He never eats meat again.

~’*’~

_12 th Day, Month of Songs, 1837_

_Well, it turns out Higgins wasn’t exaggerating when he said this place was a mess. No wonder he couldn’t find another buyer._

_The main house seems stable enough, and it has a roof at least, which already makes it better that the flooded district of Dunwall. Amelia has claimed the attic room for her own, says that she likes the views. I can’t bring myself to argue._

_As for the vineyard, it’ll take a lot of work to get it running again. The grape plants are overgrown with weeds, I’ll be lucky to get a harvest of even a couple of bunches this year. The orchard and walled garden are in slightly better shape, but for now we’re going to have to buy or scavenge food. It’s a good thing this place was so cheap after all, I’ve got plenty of coin to last us the season._

_At least the village nearby seems pleasant enough. Maybe I’ll head there tomorrow and make some enquiries about books on agriculture; it wouldn’t hurt to start building up a library here._

_Time to put my restless hands to good use for once._


	2. One - 1838

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which:  
> Daud screws up some more  
> Generally fails at carpentry  
> And slowly becomes reacquainted with emotions

~’*’~

1838

~’*’~

17th Day, Month of Earth, 1838

It takes Daud three days of trying to fix the rickety outhouse to make it a suitable food storage space for him to finally admit he has no idea what he’s doing. He’s an ex-assassin, not a carpenter.

Over the past month he has made frequent trips to the nearby villages and the closest town, Baskano, picking up books on everything from farming to wine making. He devours knowledge as he once devoured contracts but reading can only go so far and his limited library of books is hardly extensive. Nor can it teach a skill.

Setting his tools aside, Daud reaches up to wipe his brow, standing in the shade of the broken building. It hasn’t fallen down, which is something, but his mismatched repairs leave much to be desired.

“You’ve fixed it.” The voice behind him makes him jump but it’s only Amelia. Daud knows he should be more worried that she was able to sneak up on him so easily but lethargy has settled in his bones from the long hours of toil and he can’t find the energy to be concerned when he’s too busy being amazed that she has actually approached him.

“Barely,” he grumbles in reply. Beside him Amelia shrugs.

“It’s got character,” Amelia murmurs softly, subtly avoiding eye contact, “so what?”

The smile that twitches onto his face surprises him and for a moment they stare at the outhouse together in silence. Then Amelia’s stomach growls and startles them both. Daud glances down at her just in time to catch the blush creeping across tanned cheeks.

“Lunch?” he offers, daring to breach the gap between them for the first time since arriving.

Amelia nods and he turns to head back to the main house but freezes when a small hand reaches out, fingers brushing up against the mark of the Outsider before curling to grasp his hand. Daud’s shocked gaze meets Amelia’s own but this time she doesn’t shy away and glares back just as firmly, daring him to react. Daud can also see the tense way she’s holding herself, like a skittish animal, ready to jump and run, expecting rejection.

He can’t bring himself to pull away, Void be damned. He’s always had a soft spot for kids.

So instead he relaxes into it, grips her hand back lightly and amuses himself with the surprise that flashes across her face. Amelia had made herself scarce since their arrival. Daud had let her. She was grieving and Daud had respected her need for space but it appeared that her need for human comfort had finally won over.

They make their way back to the house side-by-side and hand in hand.

~’*’~

21st Day, Month of Earth, 1838

“So what’s your first name Mr. Daud?”

Glancing up from his book Daud eyed Amelia across the table and found her gazing unseeingly at and absently stirring her vegetable stew. She had never once complained about the strictly vegetarian diet Daud now adhered to, though he knew she had taken to hunting around the edges of the vineyard because he had occasionally come across her setting traps.

Not that he had ever seen evidence of her kills. For his sake after the road incident Amelia had dealt with them far from his sight.

“What’s got you so curious?” He is careful to temper his voice to prevent scaring her off, their conversations are still short and tentative and she still scampers off to hide most of the time, only really appearing for food. Part of him thinks that she hasn’t forgiven him for taking her away from her brother’s body.

“Nothin’,” she mumbles, “’s just that you know lots of things and I don’t know much of anything. ‘Specially since I can’t read all them fancy books. Don’t seem fair.” Sheepishly she sends a longing look at the hardback in his hands.

Daud, for his part, wonders why it had never occurred to him that Amelia couldn’t read. It’s a mistake he resolves to deal with as soon as he manages to navigate a conversation with her without screwing up.

“Maybe my name’s embarrassing,” he replies, aiming for nonchalance. It does the trick because her expression quickly morphs into the cheeky grin he remembers from their defence lessons.

“Is it?” Amelia looks like the cat that just got the cream.

Daud can already tell he’s going to regret this. Then again what difference is one more thing to regret going to make amongst the hundreds he already has?

~’*’~

8th Day, Month of Harvest, 1838

“Jasper?”

“No.”

“Fitzgerald?”

“ _No_.”

“Egbert?”

“Shut up.”

“Humphrey?”

“ _Amelia_.”

“Archibald?”

“Seriously?”

~’*’~

14th Day, Month of Harvest, 1838

“Valentine?”

Daud lets his head drop into his hand, massaging his temple where he can feel another headache building. It’s official. Never mind taking out a contract on the empress, encouraging Amelia’s questioning is the stupidest thing he’s ever done.

Turning to glare at her, which has exactly zero effect, he finally abandons his attempts to detangle the grape plants from the overgrown weeds.

“Are you ever going to stop?”

“Nope.” Amelia, the little shit, grins from her perch upon a nearby fencepost, swinging her legs in the gentle breeze.

“You could at least make yourself useful.” Daud gestures at the battleground in front of him.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Amelia asks, still grinning. “I’ll help if you tell me.”

Daud lets out an exasperated sigh and turns back to the grape vines. At least the Whalers had taken their share of the workload in return for the shelter and food he provided them. His headache is quickly growing from a throbbing pain to a blinding one under the beating sun.

Thankfully Amelia stays silent the rest of the afternoon, wandering off to check her traps when her boredom reached extreme levels.

Daud works late into the evening, ignoring his aching head as best he can and stumbles back to the house hours later than usual with a bone-deep tiredness plaguing his steps. He is no stranger to working himself into exhaustion, prefers it even. When he’s so tired that he can’t think straight he can’t relive the last few moment of the empresses life as a waking nightmare, can’t summon the imagination required to picture the years of blood on his hands.

It’s a welcome relief.

In his drowsy state he misses the concerned look Amelia shoots him when the fingers holding his spoon tremble as he tries not to drift off to sleep at the table.

He wakes the following morning in his bed with no memory of how he got there.

~’*’~

19th Day, Month of Harvest, 1838

Smoke curls lazily in the early evening air as Daud takes another deep drag of his cigarette. It’s one of the few luxuries he’s allowed himself in his self-imposed exile. The vineyard is slowly beginning to reflect his efforts to repair it and a basket of grapes now sits in the outhouse from one the few vines that hadn’t been overly choked with weeds.

Letting out a slow breath he slumps comfortably onto the bench he has pulled to rest outside the house and watches the sunset. The land is blessedly silent save the sounds of twilight wildlife and for the first time in years Daud lets down his guard and relaxes fully.

The crackle of a page turning draws his attention back to Amelia. She’s slowly working her way through the children’s picture book he picked up in Baskano a few days ago. One day he’ll teach her to read properly, she’s a quick learner he knows, but not yet, he’s growing too attached too quickly and he can’t afford to let that happen again.

Shaking away his thoughts he brings the cigarette back to his lips and takes another drag with a sigh of pleasure.

“Those things’ll kill you.” Amelia accuses him softly without looking up from her book.

“Maybe.” He considers the cigarette in his grasp for a moment and shrugs. “I never expected to live long enough for it to be a concern.” He takes a particularly long drag to punctuate his point.

Amelia gives him a shrewd look for the comment. Daud may not have told her about his past but she’s far from stupid. A part of him suspects she knows what he was before he stumbled into her life.

“Well now that you will you should stop.” Immediately, he bristles.

“Don’t tell me how to live my life,” Daud snarls, feeling the familiar build-up of rage, “you know _nothing_ about me.” Beside him Amelia flinches at the harshness in his voice and at the suddenly predatory nature of his posture. It should make him feel terrible. Perhaps it’s a measure of his character that he doesn’t.

The rest of the evening passes in uncomfortable silence.

~’*’~

20th Day, Month of Harvest, 1838

Amelia doesn’t appear for breakfast and for one horrible moment Daud thinks that he’s scared her off. A quick glance into her room shows it to be empty and it’s only when he spots her silhouette at the bottom of the vineyard that he pauses, heart pounding.

Slumping against the wall he contents himself with watching her slow progress between her traps for a few minutes before heading inside and setting aside some of the leftover food as an offering.

When Daud returns from the work he has been doing on the outhouse Amelia is nowhere to be found but the food is gone, he eats dinner alone and is deafened by the emptiness across from him. Mentally, he makes a note to pick up some pencils and paper the next time he heads out for supplies because screw it, he’s already too fucking attached.

~’*’~

26th Day, Month of Harvest, 1838

In the end Daud can’t help but wonder why it hadn’t happened sooner. Baskano is a small town, but as with all towns it has its criminals and gangs and the beating mid-day sun forces him to duck into a quiet alleyway before he faints from the heat.

Only to find that the end of the alley is blocked off by the bulk of two gang members and Daud doesn’t need to look behind him to know that the escape route behind him is blocked as well. He's been trying to avoid conflict considering how well the last time he wielded a knife went, but with a sigh resigns himself to a fight and lets his bag drop to the floor.

Of course, the street thugs don’t know who he is. They probably think he is a simple farmer. They are not expecting the Knife of Dunwall. Daud slips easily into a defensive stance and it is perhaps a testimony to the lack of resistance these men have had that this doesn’t make them nervous.

For a few moments there is a tense silence then the nearest thug strikes.

Or, at least, he tries to. Daud disarms him easily and with a well-placed punch and a twist has the thug in a Tyvian chokehold. With the application of pressure on his windpipe the thugs goes down easily, sinking into an unconscious heap and now Daud has a dagger. The men blocking the ends of the alley that had been paralysed in shock by his sudden action unfreeze themselves at the sight of their friend on the ground and attack all at once.

It is four against one, but Daud has dealt with worst odds and come out unscathed. It’s harder trying to non-lethally deal with the aggressors but not impossible and although Daud may not have been in a fight for six months muscle memory kicks in.

He’s rendered two unconscious with calculated blows before one of the thugs gets lucky. The sting of the knife stabbing into his side knocks him briefly off balance but the thug seems more surprised than Daud is to have gotten a hit in and Daud takes advantage of the hesitation to knock him out, promptly followed by the final gang member.

Adrenaline draining quickly, the dagger falls from Daud’s suddenly nerveless fingers and an arm comes up to wrap protectively around his side, hand encountering a warm sticky wetness that he doesn’t need to see to identify.

Staggering back towards the street Daud braces an arm against the wall, blindly adjusts his clothing in an attempt to hide the growing blood-stain and steels himself for the long walk back to the vineyard.

Later, exhausted but safely back in home territory with Amelia nowhere in sight, biting back a curse at the sudden wave of pain because leaning down _hurts_ Daud manages to extract the bottle of whiskey from the bottom of the cupboard and sets it down alongside the rudimentary medical kit he has assembled.

Easing himself down into the chair, gritting his teeth against spikes of agony from the tear in his side, Daud works his way out of his blood-stained shirt, shaking fingers fumbling with the buttons. It takes a steadying breath before he can bring himself to look at the wound. The slice is deep, but short. It will need stitches. Daud decides to put aside the knowledge that he can apparently stand the sight of his own blood for consideration later.

Pulling the stopper from the bottle with his teeth he takes a fortifying gulp before tipping the alcohol to wash the cut out. It burns hot and sharp, his head tips back, straining against the pain, face twisted into a grimace as a groan escapes his lips. Taking short, heavy breaths he drops his gaze back down. Fresh blood is spilling out of the wound, but the whiskey has washed away the dirt from the street and he knows from past experience that using alcohol reduces the chances of infection. Pressing a towel against the cut he rummages in the medical bag with his free hand.

Now comes the hard part.

Many times in his career, Daud has been thankful that his mother taught him about the herbs she used in her healing work and as his hand closes around a stoppered vial of dried Lichweed root he thanks her again. Popping one of the plants into his mouth he chews and waits for a few minutes, begins to feel the light numbness of the flowers pain-killing properties, then reaches for the needle. He holds the curved point over the candle to heat and wills his hands to stop shaking as he struggles to thread it.

Then, just in case, Daud grabs the wooden stick he had the sense to tuck into the medical bag and bites down on it.

The first stitch is a lesson in exquisite pain. It takes all he has not to scream and he squeezes his eyes shut against the darkness encroaching on his vision. The last time he did this had been after his fight with Attano and he doesn’t remember it hurting this much, but he’d been used to pain back then and he hadn’t spent an hour trudging through sweltering heat, slowly bleeding through a makeshift bandage. He’d also been considerably more drunk.

Forcing himself through the next few stitches is no better, the tug of the thread pulling through skin agonising, and by the time Daud gets to the last his hands are shaking again and he has to take a breather to calm the trembling enough to continue. Then, finally, he’s dropping the needle into a basin of water, doing his best to wipe blood off his fingers.

It’s not his neatest work, it’ll scar, maybe even match the mess of marred flesh left by Attano’s blade. With a bit of contortion Daud manages to wrap a fresh bandage around his chest, tying it tight with a grunt of pain and finally relaxing against the chair.

The wooden stick gets thrown to the side as Daud picks up the bottle of Old Dunwall Whiskey and takes a long sip as a reward.

One sip becomes two and before he knows it he’s drunk half the bottle, whether to numb the pain or the now constant ache in his chest he isn’t sure. It’s not really an excuse either way, though the drunken sleep he slips into is deep and free of dreams, so maybe it is a mercy.

When Daud wakes late that evening, it’s to a blanket tucked around his bare chest and his things packed neatly away. The whiskey is nowhere in sight.

~’*’~

27th Day, Month of Harvest, 1838

Amelia says nothing about the state in which she must have found him the previous night when she drops down opposite him for breakfast, nor does she mention the spectacular hangover he’s nursing.

It’s as though some barrier has been torn down between them. Maybe she’s finally realised that he is just as mortal as she brother was, or that he too can make mistakes. Either way, rather than hiding away as she usually does she follows him when he heads out to work on the broken fences, bringing with her a plentiful supply of water and moving to hold up the heavier boards of wood for him whenever she catches a grimace between his brows.

That night he sits her down and writes out the alphabet for her, carefully sounding out each letter and guiding her hand as she tries to replicate the shapes.

When they finally head to bed, later than planned because Amelia was determined to get the letters right, she pauses at the bottom of the stairs.

“Thank you.” The words are offered quietly.

“For what?”

“…everything.” Daud swallows around the sudden lump in his throat. He has no response to that. “Goodnight Mr. Daud”. She turns and heads up before he can shake himself out of his surprise to muster a reply.

Daud drifts fitfully to sleep that night, trying to ignore the way his chest ached in something not entirely unpleasant at the words.


	3. Two - 1838

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Daud:  
> Fails at writing a letter  
> Celebrates his birthday by consuming a vast amount of baked goods  
> And ends up training Amelia without realising he's doing it

~’*’~

1838

~’*’~

1st Day, Month of High Cold, 1838

Outside the window the wind is howling, rain lashes against glass panes and the whole house creaks. But it stands firm in the face of nature’s onslaught and it doesn’t leak, which all things considered is a minor miracle. In front of the fire Daud paces like a caged lion.

Daud’s never been good with inaction. It gives him time to think, to dwell. Dwelling only leads to self-destruction. It’s only been a day and already he’s practically pulling out his hair.

In this weather he can’t make a trip to pick up a new book and he has already exhausted his library several times. Daud _needs_ something to do, desperately. Something, anything, so long as it distracts him from the images that wake him up choking on screams at night and that swim in front of his eyes after hours of staring unseeing at a book he’s already read thrice.

The wind kicks up and some loose twigs hit the window with a sharp tap. Daud flinches, his instinct to call upon the Mark and transverse away from the perceived danger strong, but he vowed to himself not to use his powers again for fear of slipping in older habits, bad habits. Besides, Amelia may not have commented when faced with the sight of the Mark itself but she might well if she actually saw evidence of black magic.

Amelia is currently sitting on the bottom stair glancing at him occasionally over the pages of her own book. She’s in the middle of an account of the Pandyssian Isles, apparently fascinated by the exotic world the writer describes. Despite her initial enthusiasm for reading she had found much of his personal library dull and only indulged in books sporadically. Daud can hardly blame her. He hadn’t exactly built his collection with a child in mind.

“You’re going to wear a hole in the floor if you keep pacing like that.”

Daud only grunts in response, unconsciously noticing that Amelia’s vocabulary is improving the more she reads. Amelia looks at him again, judging, realising he needs distracting, then sets her book aside, squaring her tiny shoulders firmly.

It fills Daud’s stomach with dread, he knows what she is about to say.

“How about you teach me to fight instead?”

“No.” Not that, anything but that. He won’t. He refuses make the same mistake again. He’s turned too many children into weapons. Amelia shrinks back, sighs.

“Fine, forgive me for trying to help.” The mutter is quiet, he probably wasn’t meant to overhear. Her angry glare lets him know she won’t be letting the subject lie and she turns back to her book in a huff. Daud looks over at her subdued figure and swallows back the wave of guilt.

“Sorry,” he grumbles after a moment, pausing in his pacing, “I didn’t mean to snap.”

“’S fine.” It’s not fine. It never is. Somehow he always ends up hurting her, even if it is to save her from a worse fate. He closes his eyes and sees flashes of dead Whalers slumped at Overseer’s feet, some of them barely more than kids. Forces them open again before the grief can hit. Not again, never again. Amelia is better off upset than dead.

Thankfully, for the time being at least, she drops the subject, frowning instead as she reaches an unfamiliar word.

“What’s this mean then?” If her voice is a bit brusque Daud doesn’t mention it, this form of distraction is welcome and he perches down beside her on the stairs, leaning closer to find the word she’s struggling with and does his best to resist the urge to pull her into his arms, protect her from the world, and never let go.

~’*’~

22nd Day, Month of High Cold, 1838

Why the fuck did he think this was a good idea?

Daud glares angrily at the letter he has been penning. A pile of previous attempts at overture sit scrunched on the floor beside his desk, his current effort is looking no better.

_Lord Protector I am writing to…_

No, too formal.

_Corvo…_

Not formal enough, they’re hardly friends.

_Mr. Attano…_

Did anyone even call him that?

_I am writing to…_

What? Check that you got that stupid bottle of wine I sent you in some ridiculous apology attempt?

_There are no words to describe the depths of my regret and I know that I cannot ever possibly apologise, nor would I expect you to accept any apology I could give. However, I nevertheless wish to ~~express how sorry I am~~ …. ~~get these feelings out on paper~~... ~~understand why you spared my wretched life~~ … ~~~~_

No. Just, no.

_Whilst I will never understand what you went through in those months in Coldridge, or indeed the months after, I too am suffering as a result of my actions…_

Too self-serving.

_How in the Void are you holding it together Corvo? Or is it all just a mask and underneath it you’re just as messed up as me?_

The clattering of pans downstairs distracts Daud from his musings and when he reads over the words the paper is immediately crumpled like the rest. With a sigh, Daud leans back in his chair, back cracking in protest of too long spent stationary.

A curse joins the clattering. Daud resigns himself to giving up on writing and rescuing dinner from Amelia before she manages to burn it beyond repair. As he stands to leave Daud contemplates the large pile of rejected letters littering the floor.

Fuck it, Daud decides, might as well send wine again next year, it was as good as anything else as proof of his changed ways.

~’*’~

13th Day, Month of Ice, 1838

Daud wakes to snow and the smell of cinnamon.

He’s forty three today.

And as his birthdays go, this is already shaping up to be one of the better ones.

“Mr. Daud? Are you awake yet?” Amelia’s voice drifts up to him as he drags himself out of bed and immediately regrets it when the chilled air bites at him. Outside the window he can see a blanket of white covering the vineyard.

“Yes,” a pause, then incredulously as he registers that the cinnamon scent must be coming from _somewhere_ , “are you baking?”

There is a brief, embarrassed silence that tells him all he needs know and he immediately speeds up his dressing in the hopes of preventing yet another fire. Amelia must have heard the change of pace through the creaking floorboards because her next shout is obviously intended to be reassuring.

“Don’t worry, nothing’s on fire.” _Yet_ , Daud thinks quietly as he hurriedly heads for the stairs.

Much to his surprise though, the kitchen is conspicuously free of disasters and the source of the cinnamon is revealed to be a batch of golden, perfect, cinnamon whirls. For a moment he can only stare, hair still sleep ruffled and barely dressed, blinking in shock at the offering, and the sheepish Amelia standing next to the stove with an apron on and flour in her curly hair.

His continued silence unnerves Amelia and prompts her into speaking. “Mr. Daud?”

“You made cinnamon whirls.” If Daud thought saying it out loud would help him process the sight he was wrong.

“Mrs. Rossini helped,” Amelia admits quietly, “let me practice at her house.”

“Cinnamon whirls.” Daud repeats, it still doesn’t help.

“Happy birthday..?” The words were probably meant to be confident but they came out more as an uncertain question. It is enough to break Daud’s gaze away from the baked goods.

“How did you know…”

“That it was your birthday?” Amelia interrupts before he can finish the thought, she gestures towards the bookcase nervously.

Oh, right. At some point she had obviously had a browse through his journals despite being specifically told that the top shelves were out of bounds. In his bemused state Daud can’t bring himself to be angry at the transgression and what might otherwise have been rage seeps into resignment. It was bound to happen sooner or later and Amelia has clearly worked hard on this gift considering she’s normally a walking fire hazard. Mrs. Rossini is a brave woman.

“Thank you, they look delicious.” It’s a sincere compliment and her faces lights up under the praise.

They sit down for breakfast together, the first bites of still warm cinnamon eliciting a moan of pleasure from both at the heavenly taste. As he reaches for another of the glorious pastries Amelia’s innate curiosity rears its head once more.

“How old are you then?” Daud considers not answering, but then remembers where that got him last time. Her most recent guesses at his name included the likes of Zachariah and Humperdinck.

“Forty three.” Amelia’s eyes widen.

“That’s… that’s so old!” Daud huffs indignantly, not wanting to admit even to himself that he is starting to feel the years creeping up on him.

“No it’s not.” Amelia looks suspicious.

“Well I’m going to be thirteen on the sixth of Timber so you’re,” Amelia pauses as she struggles with the maths, “over _three times_ my age!” Daud is guiltily struck by the fact that both her age and her date of birth were new pieces of information to him.

“Just means I’m three times smarter,” Amelia sniggers, “and better at cooking.” That earns him a laugh.

After they have demolished the remaining cinnamon whirls and Daud has consumed enough coffee to feel properly awake Amelia moves to tidy away and shoots daggers at him from the corner of her eyes when he moves to help.

Getting the message he instead settles into his chair and plucks his current reading matter from the table beside it. A moment of consideration then he reaches down and opens one of the draws to retrieve a packet of cigarettes. At the noise Amelia glances over and her gaze narrows when it alights on the box.

“Hey,” Daud grumbles defensively because he has been cutting down and she knows it, “I’m allowed a treat. It’s my birthday.” He moves to prop open the window slightly, the heat from the fire and stove more than enough to chase away the cold draught, before settling back down, lighting one, and taking a long deep pull, relaxing fully.

Amelia snorts. “Fair enough.”

But Daud catches the small smile pulling at her lips as she moves back to the washing up and he returns to his book, content.

~’*’~

5th Day, Month of Hearths, 1838

There is a weight holding him down. It is not a visible weight, but it is effective nonetheless and Daud cannot even bring himself to get out of bed.

It’s not the first time such black moods has struck and taken any and all will to fight, although he never experienced them until after the death of the Empress at his hand. When the first black mood hit, it was after a long sleepless night back in Rudshore and he’d been certain that it was the end. It wasn’t and after a few hours the energy seeped back into his veins and his men thought nothing more of it than the effects of exhaustion.

Daud knows exhaustion, and this, this was not it.

Doctors and scientists had a lot of different names for it but Daud favoured the recent graduate of Natural Philosophy Alexandria Hypatia’s label from one of her essays.

_Depression, a sickness of the mind, manifesting in feelings of severe despondency and dejection. Those to whom I have spoken who suffer from this malady have described it’s symptoms with such a uniformity and passion that I feel this cannot be rejected as mere madness but rather as a genuine and troubling medical condition. I intend to lead further research into this affliction with the hopes of finding treatments._

“Mr. Daud?” Amelia is knocking on the door. Daud can’t summon the strength to even call a response; instead he curls further in on himself and begs for the sensation of overwhelming guilt and sorrow to pass.

The door cracks open and moments later Amelia is reaching out to shake his shoulder. Daud doesn’t, can’t, react beyond tightening his grip on the pillow but Amelia seems to relax at the proof of his continued existence.

It takes a moment but he is able to force his eyes open and he almost winces at the tangible warmth Amelia is exuding, even in her worry. “Mr. Daud? Are you sick?”

At his lack of reply she hesitates, uncertain, before standing to head back to the door muttering about getting him some water and he is suddenly clenched with the terror of facing this alone.

“No, please,” his voice is gruff and sore, “stay.”

Amelia glances back and whatever she sees is clearly enough to make up her mind because she immediately potters back over to the bed and perches on the edge, taking the hand he had reached out towards her.

“It’s alright,” she murmurs, obviously concerned, “I’ll stay.”

Daud closes his eyes again, drained once more and hears her shifting as though from a distance then the light rustling of pages.

“The Cullero grape is hardier than its fellows from the south of Serkonos due to the temperate climate and colder weather it must endure during the winter months. Although mature vines with have little trouble surviving the winter, for younger plants we recommend….”

He drifts off into a troubled sleep to the sound of her voice.

~’*’~

10th Day, Month of Hearths, 1838

Baskona is always busy on market day. Daud haggles with the stall owner about the price of the baskets as Amelia looks longingly at the sweet treats a few tables further down.

He turns his back on her for a minute as the haggling gains momentum and when he spins around to face her armed with his purchases she is gone. For a moment he thinks that she must have given in to temptation and gone to explore the sweets but a quick glance shows her to be conspicuously absent from there as well.

It is only then that Daud begins to panic. His chest tightens and grows cold with worry as he interrupts the conversation at the sweet stall.

“Have either of you seen a little girl, about this high,” he gestures roughly towards his waist, “curly brown hair?” The request is met with blank looks and frantically he turns, searching the market desperately.

“Mr. Daud?” It’s Mrs. Rossini, Amelia’s, their, friend from Reine and he’s never been so glad to see her.

“Amelia’s missing.” The woman’s eyes widen and immediately she begins the scour the crowd.

“Let’s split up,” she suggests quickly, “she might have ducked under a stall.”

As Mrs. Rossini marches back towards the main market area Daud scouts out to the edges, hoping that Amelia would have had the sense to head to the quieter area if they got separated. He’s just heading down beside the row of houses when he hears the scuffling from the alley.

“Amelia?” A muffled cry is all he gets in response and he turns into the alleyway without hesitation and his heart stops.

Three thugs are surrounding Amelia, making her look even smaller than she is. One has her in a headlock, fingers pulling cruelly at her hair and there are tears of pain in her eyes but she doesn’t stop fighting for one second.

"Where's your daddy now you little brat?" the thug restraining her taunts. "Ain't nobody coming to save you."

Daud sees red.

The haze of bloodlust envelopes him as an old friend. No one,  _no one_ hurts his little girl. His blows are brutal, holding nothing back and the thugs don’t stand a chance. They’re lucky that they were as unarmed as he was because in that moment he would not be able to stop himself from slitting their throats.

Then Amelia is in his arms and _safe_ and the fury drains from him just as quickly leaving him gasping for breath and feeling sick.

“Thank the Void you're ok." he gasps into her unruly mop of hair, tightening his hold around her.

“I’m fine Mr. Daud. I promise. We’re alright.” Amelia’s voice is growing more worried by the second and he forces his grasp to loosen and pulls back slightly, just enough to see the slumped bodies of the thugs and nausea wells up sharply.

“Are they…?” he chokes out between ragged breaths and Amelia, thankfully, understands.

“Don’t worry Mr. Daud, they’re alive.” She gives the bodies a spiteful glance. “Though they won’t be trying that again in a hurry.”

Reassured Daud sags back against the wall, trembling with a mixture of leftover adrenaline, fear, and horror and tries to remember how to breathe. _She’s ok, you didn’t kill anyone, Amelia’s fine._

A scuffle and then Mrs. Rossini is dropping down beside him, pulling Amelia into a hug of her own.

“I’m fine Mrs. Rossini,” Amelia protests at the attention, “Mr. Daud isn’t though.” The formidable gaze of Marissa Rossini falls up on and he submits himself to a cursory examination before managing to choke out that he wasn’t hurt, merely winded. With a dramatic sign Marissa crouches down again and drags his left arm over her shoulder, Mark safely hidden by the fabric bandage he wears whenever he leaves the vineyard.

“Up you get then you miserable lump.” Marissa grumbles as she hefts him to his feet. Daud tries to help but finds his legs shaky and unsteady.

In the end Marissa escorts them both back to the edge of the town where she hires a cart and drives them back to the vineyard. By the time the cart rolls to a halt at the entrance to the house Daud has sufficiently recovered and thanks her for what must be the tenth time.

“It’s no trouble really Mr. Daud. Now, you look after yourselves, alright? And maybe pop into visit more often, it’s always nice to know you’re still alive.”

Daud takes the chastisement with good grace and vows to repay her somehow as they wave her off, his arm still curled protectively around Amelia’s petit shoulders.

~’*’~

11th Day, Month of Hearths, 1838

Daud wakes early and rather than waiting for Amelia to rouse knocks forcefully on her door until she sleepily emerges. She startles slightly when he gruffly tells her to dress, surprised at the harshness in his voice which she cannot tell is tainted with lingering terror.

When the door reopens he roughly takes her arm and drags her outside and when he releases her Daud almost softens at the sight of fear in her eyes. Fear of _him_.

He clears his throat and she flinches, cowering away, almost as though she were expecting him to hurt her. The thought is unpleasant enough that he relaxes his stance slightly and softens his voice.

“Come here Amelia.”

Her steps are dragging with reluctance but she obeys, coming to a stop right in front of him and avoiding eye contact. She startles in surprise with he drops to his knees next to her.

“Good, now put me in a headlock.” Confused brown orbs meet his but nonetheless she steps behind him and wraps her arm around his neck. Her technique isn’t actually too bad but he shifts and repositions her arms until she has a firmer hold.

“This is a Tyvian chokehold,” he explains, “get familiar with this position. Tightening your grip on your wrist will put enough pressure to knock a man out, even one twice your size. Understand?”

“Yes Mr. Daud.” Amelia’s voice is more confident now with the realisation that this isn't a punishment for running off but a lesson. She tests and squeezes lightly before releasing.

“That’s it.” Then, in a flurry of motion he has escaped her grasp and locked her into a chokehold instead. She struggles for a moment then calms when he begins to describe the motions required to break the hold, helping her run through the actions at first, then letting her try without his help.

“If you ever get caught like that again, you break out and you run,” he looks her straight in the eye, voice brokering no argument, “you run Amelia, and you find me, or a friend like Mrs. Rossini, or a crowd big enough to hide in.” He pauses until he is certain the message has been received then resumes the headlock “Again.”

Daud drills her under they are both sweating and he is convinced that she could escape from even his grasp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter wrote itself somewhat quicker than planned so the next update probably won't be until next weekend (19th/20th) as I've also got university deadlines coming up!


	4. Three - 1839

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Daud:  
> Actually makes wine  
> Receives an unwanted visitor  
> And shows off a hidden talent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooops? So ignoring my imminent deadline....  
> Anyway, I give you much fluff in an attempt to make up for all the angst thus far!

~’*’~

1839

~’*’~

3rd Day, Month of Earth, 1839

The proudly labelled bottle sits on the kitchen table. His first bottle.

Somehow, despite knowing nothing about the art until a year ago, Daud has managed to make a decent wine.

Strange, to think that he has actually managed to fulfil the hare-brained dream born out of the growth of the Whalers and a growing disillusionment with his life of killing. Honestly, he had never expected to live long enough to see this dream through. Then again, he hadn’t expected a great many of the events of the previous two years.

Holding his half-finished glass Daud swirls the flavour around his mouth. The variety of grapes give it the recognisable taste of a North Serkonan wine, but the spices that Daud added, learned from watching his mother, give the wine a subtle flavour and an unexpected kick that adds to the pleasant heat of the alcohol.

It’s actually quite good.

His mother had gifted him three things in life, her startling and unusual grey eyes, her fierce determination, and her knowledge of herbs and spices.

Daud’s mother had loved to cook with spice and she had delighted in teaching him the best combinations and the subtle way that they enhanced the flavour of a dish. Although she had claimed it was impossible to recreate the food of Pandyssia without the spices that naturally grew there, that hadn’t stopped her putting her formidable mind to the task of getting as close as possible to the taste of home.

He drags himself away from the memories before they begin to hurt.

“Can I try?” Amelia perks up from beside him and he absently hands her the glass, trusting her to know her limits. He watches as she takes a large sip and her face scrunches in concentration as the taste bursts across her tongue. A moment later she takes another, more enthusiastic gulp and turns bright eyes to him.

“It’s delicious Mr. Daud! Much better than that boring stuff you get in Baskano.” Daud takes the glass back before she can drink too much and pops the cork back into the bottle.

“I’ll take the rest into Reine tomorrow to sell.” Amelia looks a little disappointed at the prospect of losing the wine but bounces back quickly.

“We’re going to make more right?” Daud almost chuckles at her eagerness.

“Amelia, I own a vineyard, what else are you expecting me to do with it?”

Leaving the opened bottle on the table Daud turns to examine the rest of the crate sat on the side. There are a reasonable number of bottles considering that the grape harvest the previous year had been small as a consequence of the vineyard’s disrepair. Even so, it should make a decent income, especially it everyone else finds it as palatable as Amelia had.

Carefully, he selects a bottle and sets it aside to be sent to Corvo Attano.

He takes the rest into Reine the following day to sell and returns with a full money pouch, enough to support even a growing child’s appetite, and several contracts from eager landlords who had taken one sip and promptly signed up for more.

~’*’~

18th Day, Month of Earth, 1839

When Daud wakes not to the familiar roof of his room at the vineyard but to the swirling blue and floating islands of the Void he is not at all surprised. That doesn’t mean he first instinct isn’t to curse the deity responsible into next week. Not that the Outsider even grants him the satisfaction of a response. After a few minutes stumbling around Daud gives in and leans against a wall, folding his arms in a mockery of the Outsider’s favourite pose.

“Show yourself then you black-eyed bastard.” With a gentle swoosh, the whale god materialises directly in front of him.

“Hello Daud.” Two words and Daud already wants nothing more than to punch him in his smug face.

“What you do want?” he growls instead, clenching his hands into fists at his sides in preparation for whatever convoluted drabble the god has prepared. The Outsider tips his head and observes him for a long moment.

“Two years have passed since you killed the Empress in cold blood,” and of course he opens with that, “yet of all the paths you could have taken, I must admit I did not foresee this, this life of pacifism. Do you truly think you can ever atone for your actions?”

“I’m glad I’m keeping you fucking entertained.” Daud is seething. It is almost as though the Outsider has tempered each word for maximum punch and it certainly feels like the deity has reached into his chest, wrapped a hand around his heart and squeezed.

Daud closes his eyes for a moment and sees flashes of blood and death, the Empress dead at his feet, Corvo’s lost and empty gaze, when he opens them again he’s on the gazebo and Jessamine Kaldwin is staring at him with dead eyes.

He can’t breathe.

Daud feels his knees give out and he collapses to the floor with a muffled thud, supports himself on trembling hands and struggles to gasp in air around the constricting iron band crushing his lungs. He sees the Outsider crouch beside him in his peripheral vision and waits for a derogatory comment that never comes. Risking a glance up Daud is momentarily shocked to see an expression that looks almost like concern on the Outsider’s face.

Slowly, the band loosens and his gasping inhales even out enough that he risks slumping into a seating position, propping himself up against one of the crumbling walls of Dunwall. Across from him the Outsider remains crouched, watching him with a look Daud cannot place.

Dammit, he’s just had a mini fucking breakdown in front of a god.

“In your regret you have isolated yourself,” the Outsider begins softly after a pause, too softly, as though he were a fragile thing and it _grates_ , “broken all ties with your past and begun anew. This I expected. Many things were the lesser balance of chance. But taking the child under your wing, that was… _unexpected_.” At the mention of Amelia Daud feels something sharp rise up.

“Don’t you dare touch her.” The level of anger in his tone surprises them both. It also, much to his annoyance, sparks a smirk on the lips of the whale god.

“Spoken like a true father,” the Outsider replies, vanishing only to appear again a moment later perched on a nearby ledge, “for now you need not worry, sweet little Amelia has many futures to decide from, some with great potential to change the world, but she is yet to hold my attention.”

Around him the Void begins to fade, whale song rings in his ears and there is the taste of sea salt on his tongue as he catches the Outsider’s fading words.

“You, however, I will be watching with great interest, _old friend_.”

He wakes choking, caught somewhere between the weightlessness of the Void and the solidity of the bed beneath him. It takes several discomforting minutes for the sensation to fade and even then he doesn’t quite feel truly present.

~’*’~

15th Day, Month of Harvest, 1839

“Are you planning to attend the harvest ball in Baskano next week?” Marissa Rossini asks in a decent imitation of innocence as they wander through Reine for what has become one of their weekly meetings. Not that Daud is fooled for a second, he saw the longing looks both Amelia and Marissa had been giving the tailor shop earlier, already stocked with beautiful gowns and suits in preparation for the biggest social event of the year.

Amelia gasps in delight, her eyes lighting up at the prospect and Daud restrains a groan because he knows that once she has sets her mind on something it’s only a matter of time before she gets her way.

“A ball?” Amelia questions. “With dancing and pretty dresses and fancy food?” Marissa passionately confirms each of Amelia’s expectations as Daud mentally plans how to let her down gently because a busy packed ballroom exactly the last place he wants to be.

“Mr. Daud, can we go? Oh please can we go?”

Daud is going to refuse but then Amelia gives him _that look_ , the one that she knows he can’t deny, and any thoughts of turning down the request are immediately negated. Damn this girl. With a sigh, he relents.

Besides, working out on the vineyard is a rather isolated life and it would probably do her some good to socialise with people her own age.

“Fine, we’ll go.”

“Yes! Thank you!” Amelia gushes as she grabs him in a sudden and unexpected hug, but Daud only tenses for a moment before returning it.

“But only if you promise to stay with us and listen when we tell you do to something alright?” Amelia nods enthusiastically into his chest, willing to accept any restriction for his permission to go, and beside him Marissa pipes up with a raised eyebrow.

“Us Mr. Daud? Is that an invitation?” Daud swallows, he hadn’t intended to make that sound like a proposition at all and he’s always been bad at recognising when someone was flirting with him, but before he can explain Amelia jumps in.

“Of course Mrs. Rossini! Anyway, you have to have a date for a ball and Mr. Daud can hardly take me as his date. That would be weird.” The word weird is accompanied by a mildly disgusted facial expression that only a child can pull and still look endearing.

Daud can feel a blush rising on his cheeks. He suddenly regrets never telling Amelia about his interests, or lack thereof, at least then he might have avoided her completely unsubtle attempt at matchmaking. Marissa merely quirks her eyebrow a little higher, obviously amused by his embarrassment and clearly intending to take full advantage.

“Well, that settles it then,” she declares, taking Amelia’s hand and sending him a look that promises bodily harm should he dare refute his daughter.

And that is how Daud finds himself dress shopping with Amelia and Marissa. By the time they have discussed the merits of at least half the dresses and tried on half the others he has a pounding headache and can practically hear the Whalers laughing at their great leader tamed by a street girl and a baker’s widow.

~’*’~

27th Day, Month of Harvest, 1839

Baskano is a small town, barely the size of a district of Dunwall. The harvest ball, despite being the largest social event of the year for the citizens of Baskano and the nearby villages is in reality quite a small affair, the decorations are for the most part home-made and tasteful and the atmosphere relaxed.

In a community this size, everyone knows everyone else, or at least, knows enough people that they might as well know everyone. Daud finds himself pleasantly surprised by how many people he recognises. They had travelled with a sizable contingent from Reine earlier that afternoon, many of whom were now dotted around the ballroom floor. Marissa and Amelia were there as well, spinning together as Marissa indulged Amelia’s newfound love of dancing.

A couple of people have approached him for a dance as well, though he has politely turned them down, content to stand at the side and watch, even as the upbeat Serkonan music reminds him of his own childhood, dancing in the streets outside grand parties, or his mother teaching him dances from Pandyssia in the privacy of their own home on quiet summer evenings.

Across the room, Amelia shoots him a grin as the dance begins to wind down and he finds himself smiling back lightly. She looks beautiful, twisting and turning in a flash of deep purple fabric. He barely recognises the street kid he had found in that Cullero alley. At thirteen, he can also see the formidable and stunning young woman she is growing into and mentally he makes a note to teach her to fight off the boys, and girls, that will undoubtedly come flocking.

Shifting uneasily in his own getup Daud adjusts the bottom of the waistcoat in an attempt to get it to lay flat. Not satisfied with ensuring their own extravagant appearance at the ball, Amelia and Marissa had somehow convinced him to try on a few outfits himself.

Black boots, polished and neat, over dark trousers which Marissa had bought herself after Amelia had informed her of the state of his wardrobe, dark grey shirt, buttoned up to the neck but with sleeves rolled up in a concession to the heat of the evening, soft leather gloves that reached to his wrists.

The waistcoat had been Amelia’s spot and even he had to admit it was well designed, the fabric a deep jade silk, lightly patterned with vertical stripes, small collar. The edges were embroidered with silver thread, the buttons were polished silver, and it even had a delicate pocket watch. It was the only purchase he had made for himself that day that he actually wanted to buy. Amelia had good taste.

The song finally draws to a close and Daud applauds the dancers politely along with the other spectators. Amelia immediately rushes over, flushed and out of breath but grinning in delight, Marissa trailing at a more acceptable pace.

“That was so much fun!” Amelia enthuses as she twirls in front of him.

“You danced well.” Daud compliments fondly, reaching out to steady her as she stumbles coming out of the spin.

“You haven’t danced at all yet.” There is a confused scowl on her face, and just the slightest hint of worry that Daud feels a rush of guilt upon seeing.

“Not for lack of partners,” Marissa has caught up just in time to hear Amelia’s comment and she gives him an appraising sweep from top to bottom that makes him feel slightly uncomfortable, “It would seem you’re a hit with the ladies Mr. Daud, although I’ve seen you turn down plenty of them tonight.”

“Not really interested.” Daud grumbles in reply, hating having to justify himself. He sees the cogs turning and Marissa’s face shifts as a revelation hits.

“Well,” she murmurs without a hint of judgement, “what about the men then?”

If Daud hadn’t been blushing before he certainly is now, even if he can quite easily see why Marissa had made that jump in logic.

“Not really interested at all actually.”

“Oh!” His answer has clearly surprised her, but just as quickly as the surprise had hit, it is replaced with something he can only describe as worry and concern. “I must apologise Mr. Daud, if I’ve ever made you uncomfortable in any way…”

“Don’t worry about it Marissa,” Daud interrupts, hurrying to appease her worry, using her name for the first time in respectful acknowledgement of her easy acceptance of him. She truly had never done anything that caused him more that slight discomfort and even then the situations could have been avoided if only he had spoken up. “I’m as much to blame for not telling you earlier, I would have said something if you had.”

Between them Amelia shuffles awkwardly, clearly not quite understanding what they are talking about and her agitation catches his attention. Around them, dancers begin to gather for the next song, and an idea springs into his mind.

Turning, he bows at the waist and offers a gloved hand, palm up, to Amelia.

“May I have the honour of this dance my lady?” Amelia giggles at the formality of his tone and posture, eyes sparking, and she takes his hand with a playful flourish.

It has been a very long time since Daud last danced, but within the first minute it comes flying back to him and to his surprise he finds himself enjoying it. Years of practicing duelling and footwork means that he naturally moves with a gentle grace and despite everything that has happened in his life, he had been raised in Serkonos. Dancing is in his blood.

Expertly, he spins and twirls Amelia around the floor, ignoring the approving eyes that he can feel burning into his back as he flawlessly executes a difficult move. Amelia’s gaze is one of delighted wonder as he draws her into back into the loose hold, feels her hand settle on his upper arm because she isn’t quite tall enough to reach his shoulder, even if she is in the middle of a growth spurt.

With a flourish, he spins her into a lift at the end of the dance and hears her squeal in delight. His heart flutters at her smile when he carefully places her down and offers a bow to end the dance. Applause erupts around then, particularly loud from the Reine residents.

“Wow. I had no idea you could dance like that Mr. Daud!” Amelia exclaims, still beaming. Daud just gives her a cheeky smile.

“I’m full of secrets.”

“Clearly,” Marissa looks impressed as she reaches down to give Amelia a hug. Daud glances around and suddenly finds himself the object of many of the dancer’s attention. Marissa follows his gaze and hurriedly whispers to Amelia, who nods and runs off to the side of the room.

“May I have the next dance?” Her eyes were open, honest and without any expectation. Daud looks between Marissa’s offered hand and the slightly predatory gazes of his new admirers.

“I would be delighted.”

As they stroll back to the carriages later that night, Amelia swinging their joined hands between them, pleasantly tired from the dancing, Daud’s heart feels lighter than it has in a long, long time.


	5. Four - 1839

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Daud:  
> Is not ok  
> Begins to open up  
> And signs something that will change his life

~’*’~

1839

~’*’~

16th Day, Month of Hearths, 1839

Daud is just leaving the grocer’s store in Baskano, having dropped Amelia off at Marissa Rossini’s in Reine on the way over, when it hits.

The worst thing is that Daud has absolutely no idea what triggered it but the black mood sinks its claws into his mind without warning and with impressive speed and he finds himself full of guilt and anger, mostly aimed at himself, the strength of which he has not faced in months. And this time there is no Amelia to distract him from his thoughts, to sit with him and read, drawing his attention away from the nagging ache in his chest.

As his mind turns to the darkness Daud finds himself unable to fight it. He feels distanced from himself, seeing the world through a muffled haze. His body moves on instinct.

He’s not sure how he finds himself in the bar, but he does. Emily Kaldwin glares accusingly at him from the coin he hands over. Usually, Daud doesn’t care for alcohol, and certainly never drinks more than the occasional recreational or medicinal glass. Today, however, he aims for blind drunk and proceeds to heroically attempt to empty the place of whiskey. Awareness fades.

When the world seeps back in he’s in an alley. There’s blood on his hands. Thugs and gang members lay groaning on the floor clutching broken noses and bruised bones. Daud’s in no better state but with alcohol and adrenaline coursing through his veins and filling the emptiness he feels so _alive_.

This is who he is. He can never truly escape it. He damages everything he touches.

The next thing Daud can clearly recall is stumbling into the disused barn on the outskirts of Baskano and collapsing into the straw. It’s dark when he wakes; his head is pounding, moving hurts and his souls feels numb. A brief examination reveals that miraculously all his bones seem to be intact though he is sporting some truly spectacular bruising across his chest and stomach.

Taking a deeper breath he probes his bruised side to check for cracked bones and pain ripples through him. He embraces it, presses harder than needed against his ribs because in the midst of the numbness he can at least feel this. The pain makes him feel _alive_.

It is more than he deserves.

~’*’~

17th Day, Month of Hearths, 1839

“Mr. Daud, what happened yesterday?” Amelia’s eyes are sharp as they run over him from across the table. From what Daud has gathered, when he failed to pick Amelia up the previous evening Marissa had insisted she spend the night with her and had then brought her back to the vineyard herself to look for him.

Yet another thing for him to feel guilty about.

He had awoken in his bed that morning, unsure of how he got there, with depression weighing him down. The walk to his dresser had felt like wading through treacle. Minutes, hours, later, he isn't sure, he had answered a banging on the door and had found himself facing a disappointed Marissa and a visibly upset Amelia. Now, reeling in the aftermath of an impressive dressing down by the formidable widow, he has to somehow fix this mess of his own making.

“I’m sorry Amelia,” he mumbles, subdued, “I… wasn’t myself.”

Amelia’s narrow glare softens slightly as she at least in part understands the ramifications of his words. Daud is suddenly thankful that his injuries are hidden beneath his heavier winter clothes, safely concealed from her eyes. This is his burden to bear, and his alone.

Beneath his shirt the bruises burn with the weight of his shame.

~’*’~

3rd Day, Months of Seeds, 1839

The house is filled with the scent of rich spices as Daud carefully prepares their evening meal. Amelia watches with her usual rapt attention from the table.

“Where did you learn to cook like that Mr. Daud?” The knife slips and Daud narrowly avoids slicing his hand open. Amelia offers a contrite apology but Daud knows that his distraction will hardly dissuade her.

“Why do you ask?”

“It’s just, how do you know what spices to use? I can never get it right.” Daud pauses as he is assaulted with memories of a dust-filled home, the phantom smell of herbs and chemicals.

“My mother taught me.”

“What was she like?” The admission has clearly piqued Amelia’s interest.

Daud lays the knife down and resigns himself to answering, the sorrow at the loss of his mother feeling suddenly fresh in his mind.

“Loud, frequently angry, a force of nature, yet wise and patient.” A sigh. “She was an independent spirit, fearsome and unafraid. She taught me how to defend myself from the dangers and prejudices of the world.”

“I wish I could have met her.” Amelia says quietly after a moment. Daud smiles and small, forlorn smile.

“She would have liked you.”

“Really?” Amelia asks hopefully.

“I think so,” Daud replies, absently stirring the pot of stew though his mind is far away.

“Was she a cook then?” Daud chuckles sadly.

“In a way. She made potions and medicines to help people. Some people called her a witch, eventually enough of them believed it that the Overseers got involved. They raided our house one night and dragged her away for questioning. I never saw her again.”

“I’m sorry,” Amelia offers, then a moment later, “do you miss her?” Daud closes his eyes against the painful twinge.

“Every day.”

~’*’~

7th Day, Month of Timber, 1839

Daud’s head feels like it has been stuffed full of wool as he stumbles of out of bed. Immediately he regrets being upright as nausea rises up and his knees shake beneath his weight. Somehow he manages to stagger down the stairs without fainting and has to lean against the door-post to the kitchen as the world swims alarmingly.

“Mr. Daud..? Mr. Daud! Are you alright?” Amelia’s voice sounds muffled and he vaguely registers her words.

“’M fine,” he mumbles into his sleeve as he rests his head against solid wood in the hopes that it will stop the room lurching. It doesn’t.

Distantly he hears Amelia cry “Mr Daud!”

Then nothing.

He resurfaces to the feeling of cool cloth against his aching forehead and soft voices surrounding him. Trying to open his eyes turns out to a bad idea as the shocking brightness assaults his irises and the pain in his head shoots from mild to unbearable. He must make a noise of discomfort because a moment later a hand brushes gently across his eyebrows in calming motions.

Normally he would balk at the sign of affection but he feels awful enough that he can barely restrain from turning into the comfort.

“Mr. Daud?” Through the fog of thoughts it takes him longer than it should to identify the speaker as Marissa Rossini.

“Marissa, what..?” She softly hushes him and he doesn’t have the strength to protest. There is a quiet trickle of water as someone wrings the cloth out and then a new cold compress is laid across his brows, refreshing and soothing in equal measure.

“Amelia ran to fetch me after you collapsed Mr. Daud.”

“C’llapsed?” Words are becoming increasingly difficult to force out. Marissa hums and he feels her rearranging the sheets around him.

“You have a fever Mr. Daud, you’ve probably come down with one of the sicknesses that’s been going around. You’ll be right as rain in a few days I’m sure.”

Someone nags faintly at the back of his mind, something important. He tries to sit but doesn’t get far before Marissa’s hand catches his shoulder and pushes him easily and gently back against the pillows. Even the small movement has drained him of all remaining strength.

“The vines…”

“Don’t worry Mr. Daud,” Marissa’s voice fades with his consciousness, “we’ll take care of it.”

~’*’~

9th Day, Month of Timber, 1839

The sun streaming in through the window rouses Daud from his sleep. Squinting against the light he sluggishly tries to recall why he feels like he's been run over by a stampede of horses. Everything aches, even the smallest movement is a struggle.

Flashes of the past few days seep into his memory and it is sufficiently enough to speed his journey to full wakefulness.

A glance around the room shows it to be empty of anyone except himself, although there are blankets piled on a chair that has been pulled up next to his bed. A small basin of water with a cloth laid over the edge sits on his nightstand beside a jug and mercifully full glass. Holding the glass in shaky hands Daud takes a few sips to calm his dry and aching throat and then tentatively he pulls himself into a seated position.

Adjusting to the angle takes a moment but from his new viewpoint he can see the position of the sun and estimates that it is mid-afternoon. The windows have been left open and a calm breeze rustles through the curtains.

Outside he can hear voices.

Alarmed, he moves to stand and has to catch himself on the bedpost when the world tilts. Ducking his head and taking deep breaths he waits to the sensation to pass and heads towards the stairs without bothering to change out of the light shirt and trousers he is dressed in.

The sight that greets him is not what he expected and he freezes, stunned.

Familiar faces of around a dozen Reine citizens are working on the vineyard, tending to the plants and undertaking the repairs that he has been meaning to do for a while and the midst of the madness directing them all is Amelia.

Holding himself up now through sheer stubbornness, Daud leans heavily against the wall of the doorway and watches them complete the work that he has been unable to do.

It takes Marissa about a minute to spot him and when she does she drops her tools with a clatter and rushes over.

“What in the Void are you doing out of bed? You look as pale as a Gristolian!”

Her hands reach up to catch him just as his legs finally give out.

“What..?” Daud’s dazed mind is still stuck on processing the sight of half of Reine tending to his vineyard.

“I said we’d take care of it,” Marissa grumbles as she lowers him onto the bench just outside the door.

“Why..?”

“You live here Mr. Daud,” Marissa scolds even as she fusses over him, “you’re part of this community whether you like it or not and we look after our own.”

Amelia pops up behind her having finally noticed the commotion.

“Mr. Daud? How are you feeling?” Her eyes are brimming with worry and he feels an urgent need to reassure her.

“Fine,” which at her unconvinced glare he promptly reiterates to, “better.”

“Look how many people came to help! Isn’t it wonderful?” Amelia gestures towards the field where the people of Reine have paused in their toil to eavesdrop on their interaction.

“Yes,” Daud whispers, overwhelmed and awed by the willingness of these people to help them, help him, without a thought for themselves, “it is.”

He hadn’t realised how many connections they had made, how settled they had become. He is astounded by the revelation that he would consider some of these people friends.

“Right,” Marissa announces after a few seconds of silence, “back to bed with you I think.”

Between them, Marissa and Amelia coax and support him back up to his room and he sinks gratefully back into the pillows, eyes heavy. As he drifts off back into an exhausted doze to the sounds of talking and clattering, he is filled with a depth of emotion that he can’t quite place.

He sleeps a healing sleep, deep and restful, dreams blessedly empty.

~’*’~

13th Day, Month of Timber, 1839

Daud wakes early and watches the sun rise over the vineyard.

Amelia is fourteen today and he has been planning her birthday gift for some time. He spends the dawn hours trying to summon up the courage to go through with it.

Daud has always been an early riser but Amelia is exactly the opposite and whilst he waits for her to rouse he wears a hole in the kitchen floor with his anxious pacing. When she still fails to emerge he finds himself baking just to give his hands something to do.

Perhaps it is the smell of freshly baked bread that finally breaks through her haze of sleep for just as he removes the loaf from the oven he hears a familiar pattering on the stairs.

“Good morning Amelia.”

“’Morning.” Daud turns to see her rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, dressed in one of his old oversized shirts that she had claimed months ago. In that moment he can almost believe she is still the tiny street kid he met in Cullero. It is a struggle to comprehend that it has only been two years. If he is honest, he can’t comprehend that she is still here, that he hasn’t managed to frighten her away.

Yet there she stands, unarmed and completely unafraid, just as she had been the day they met. More than anything else, it is this that convinces him that he’s made the right decision.

“Happy birthday,” he offers, pushing the fresh bread towards her in offering along with a cup of sweetened coffee. Amelia perks up immediately at the recognition of the anniversary of her birth. She perks up even more when he follows it with, “we’ll have to leave for Baskano soon if you want your gift today.”

Following a rushed breakfast they reach legal quarter of Baskano in record time, Amelia’s boundless excitement increasing Daud’s sedate walking pace to a brisk march as he makes a bee line for the record office, Amelia’s arm tucked securely into his own as he escorts her inside.

Daud exchanges quiet words with the woman at the desk as Amelia examines her surroundings with her trademark curiosity. A moment later they are shown through into the lawyer’s office where the man and the paperwork are ready for them.

It is here that Amelia finally demands answers and Daud fumbles for a way to explain.

“I would like, if you want to,” he hesitates but swallows his fear and follows through, “to make this,” a hand gestures between them, “official.”

Amelia frowns, confused, but rather than try to clarify further and undoubtedly mess it up, he hands over the documentation instead.

He watches apprehensively as her sharp eyes scan the page and sees the moment they widen in realisation and, to his horror, fill with tears. He curses himself for ever thinking this was a good idea but then she looks up and he sees that beneath the tears she’s smiling brightly and a moment later his breath huffs out as an Amelia-shaped projectile hits his chest with the force of a speeding bullet.

“I know I can’t replace your parents Amelia, and I don’t intend to but…” Daud’s nervous rambling is cut off by a high-pitched squeak as Amelia tightens her grip on him and he has to withdraw slightly to make out the words.

“Yes! Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Slumping and softening in relief he allows a small smile to escape and he returns her hug with as much affection as he dares.

Under the watchful eye of the lawyer Daud fills out the relevant forms and does his best to ignore Amelia who is practically bouncing with excitement at his side. She manages to contain herself long enough to sign her name in a beautifully neat cursive where the lawyer directs and Daud is grateful that she has taken his writing lessons to heart.

Then it’s his turn and he takes the pen with a strength he had lacked just minutes before. As he leans to sign his own name in the required places, however, he catches her interested, hopeful gaze and with a smirk moves to block her view.

“Cheeky,” he chastises softly and grins at the frustrated groan he hears from behind his back, though he secretly knows that they both enjoy her guessing game.

It has been a long time since he used his full name and it looks strange to see it written down after so long. Handing the papers over to be checked Daud jumps as Amelia hurriedly tucks herself into his side, clearing hoping for a glance at his name.

She’s not in luck, and although the lawyer raises an eyebrow as he reads he thankfully doesn’t comment. Daud isn’t ashamed of the name his mother gave him, but he is unfortunately aware of how much unwanted attention a name as foreign as his can get.

“All seems to be in order.” The lawyer hands one of the pages back to him and Daud tucks it into his pocket before Amelia can see, restraining a chuckle at the betrayed look on her face. “Congratulations to you both.”

“Thank you,” Daud replies and with a careful nudge to prompt her Amelia follows suit, her eyes still trained on his coat.

The paper burns a hole in his pocket the entire way back to the vineyard, to home. Only when he is certain that Amelia is asleep does Daud take it out a re-read it, feeling a pleasant and warm sensation in his heart that he revels in. Carefully, he tucks the precious certificate into his small safe and falls asleep with the words etched into his mind, feeling more at peace and content than he believes he has any right to be.

_~ Statement of Legal Guardianship ~_

_Under the agreement of both parties, the legal office of Cullero, Serkonos formally recognises:_

Daud Al-Maharib

_As the legal guardian of the minor:_

Amelia Costella

_As of the Thirteenth Day of the Month of Timber, 1839._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has left kudos and comments - your support is deeply appreciated!  
> A bit of trivia for you, 'Daud' is the Arabic form of 'David' so it felt fitting to give him an Arabic surname. 'Al-Maharib' translates roughly to 'The Warrior'.  
> x


	6. Five - 1840

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Daud:  
> Wins one battle and loses another  
> Overhears something he shouldn't have  
> And admires the view

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, slight warning here just in case, this chapter contains brief discussion/description of stuff that happens during puberty (still a taboo subject somehow?), so if that's not your thing, skip over the second section.

~’*’~

1840

~’*’~

16th Day, Month of Rain, 1840

Despite the fact that the tourist season is drawing to a close, Cullero’s market square is still remarkably busy. Squeezing between holidaying Gristolians who have never done an honest day’s work in their lives, Serkonan merchants, and ships crews from Morley, all taking advantage of what promises to be one of the last warm and sunny days of the year, Daud winds his way unerringly towards the docks.

Picking up a newspaper Daud snorts disparagingly at the continuing front page coverage of the thirteenth birthday party of Empress Emily Kaldwin a fortnight after the event. Not that the paper says much about the Empress entering her teenage years, choosing instead to focus on the fashions and the scandals.

Nothing has changed in Dunwall it seems, at least not on the journalistic front.

Poor kid, having to hold parliament under the scrutiny of that nest of vultures. It was a miracle that Empress Emily was doing so well, though Daud suspected Attano had a bigger hand in it than many people thought.

Leaning idly against the wall Daud settles in to wait for the cargo ship that will be exporting his wine to Morley, Gristol, and Tyvia weather depending, to arrive. The captain seemed an honourable and honest man from their previous correspondence, a rare set of attributes these days, and the price had been fair. Daud has hopes for a long and fruitful partnership.

Intermittently scanning both the newspaper and the crowd, Daud allows himself to enjoy the familiar atmosphere, only looking up at the sound of an approaching steamer and just as quickly dismissing it, the boat is far from old but nonetheless looks worn and ragged, from this distance Daud can barely make out the name on the side of the stern, _dreadful_ something by the looks of it. Deciding it’s definitely not the ship he’s waiting for he turns his attention back to the article on recruitment into the Dunwall city watch and to eavesdropping on snippets of nearby conversations.

“Winston put that down!”

“Aye, sir, unseasonably warm today.”

“It’ll be better once we’ve got rid of the Empress, ungrateful little brat.”

“Have you heard back from the doctor yet?”

Wait. _What?_

Risking a glance down the street Daud picks out the speaker from a huddled group of men stood against the wall a few stalls down, conversing in hushed tones that, had he not been trying to overhear over the racket of the harbour, he wouldn’t have.

“Did they get the maps to you?”

“Not yet, it’s proving harder than we expected, now that that wretched Attano is practically Spymaster as well.” One of the men snorts.

“Attano is a traitor to this country.”

“We can’t afford to delay much longer, if we want to act after the anniversary next year, we need time to plan.”

“You’re right.”

A pause.

“It’s too exposed here. We’ll finish this discussion later. In private.”

Daud hurriedly returns his attention to the newspaper whilst the group passes him, waits for a long moment, then peels away from the wall to tail them through the crowd. Or at least, he tails them until them split up in the main market. For a moment he hesitates and he works out how best to proceed. Whilst he could pick one man and follow him, there was always the risk of losing him in the crowd, or of being discovered and confronted which would work against his new objective of gathering further information.

Instead Daud memorises the men at best he can as they head their separate ways, their faces, voices, attire, potential occupation, and returns to the dock, already planning future trips back to Cullero to investigate the conspiracy he has stumbled upon completely by accident.

~’*’~

3rd Day, Month of Wind, 1840

Daud wakes to a scream.

Years of honed instinct respond before he has time to think. Not bothering to dress he grabs the dagger that he keeps under his pillow and is outside Amelia’s door in less than fifteen seconds in just his pyjama trousers. Knocking could waste precious moments so he flings the door open without warning, armed and ready to face whatever threat has dared hurt his daughter.

Only, the room is empty except for Amelia.

Amelia, who is curled up against the bedstead, hugging a cushion to her abdomen with soft, pained sobs, and staring in horror at the blood staining her bedsheets.

Daud’s heart freezes at the thought that he might already be too late.

Rushing to her side he crashes to his knees beside her, no longer caring about making noise, focussed only on his daughter’s distress.

“Amelia! What happened? Where are you hurt?” The words burst free in a flurry as he cups her face in his hands and tenderly wipes away an escaping tear.

“Stomach,” she whimpers.

Immediately a hand falls to the cushion and gently he peels it away from her hold, bracing himself for a stab wound, or worse. But to his surprise there is nothing but unblemished skin when he gently smooths a searching hand across her abdomen beneath the nightshirt.

No, the blood is not coming from there, but lower.

Oh.

Eyes widening in realisation of his charge’s ailment Daud can’t stop the flush of embarrassment that rises, as much for Amelia as for himself. Of course. Amelia’s mother passed away when she was young and she had spent a lot of her years pretending to be a boy, living on the streets, uneducated even about her own body. Why should she know?

“It’s alright,” Daud soothes relaxing minutely, letting his hand come to rest over her lower stomach, over her womb, and sees her relax as well at the slight relief the warmth brings. “You're okay. This is nothing to be afraid of, Amelia, it happens to all women, it’s natural, normal.”

“Normal?” she whispers disbelievingly, calming slowly. “But it hurts!”

Daud nods forlornly, pushing aside his own discomfort at discussing such a delicate topic for the sake of his daughter’s peace of mind.

“It means that your body has grown enough that you can now have children, if you want.”

“Children? How..?”

Daud briefly turns his eyes to the heavens for strength. He is quite possibly the worst person in the world to ask that question, he knows the theory, but has never had any interest in practicing the process himself. 

“I’ll explain everything,” he settles on eventually, “when you’re feeling better.” He can feel the painful tensing and cramping of previously unused muscles beneath his hand and hears the whimpered exhales to go with it. No, now is not the time, his daughter is hurting.

Promising a prompt return he rushes downstairs and digs out the herbs his mother had always set aside for such times, grabbing fresh sheets on the way, and when the evidence is tidied away and the ache from the cramps blunted, Amelia falls into a restless sleep to the soft brush of his fingers across her forehead and through her hair. Pulling up a chair, he sits with his daughter through the night.

~’*’~

4th Day, Month of Wind, 1840

Marissa answers the door with impressive speed considering that it is barely past dawn.

“Marissa, Amelia, well, she, last night, I, erm…” it is perhaps the least eloquent he’s ever been.

She takes one look at their faces, Amelia still pained, his own flustered and embarrassed, and draws the right conclusion in seconds. Bustling them inside and laughing at his distress Marissa easily takes charge, leading Amelia away into the yard to explain the birds and the bees properly and commanding him into the kitchen to make tea, bake bread, and generally keep himself out of the way.

Busying himself with the kettle he silently thanks the Void that he has the force of nature that is Marissa Rossini for a friend.

~’*’~

19th Day, Month of Wind, 1840

Daud can’t help but wonder why conspirators think that pubs are a suitable meeting place, it’s almost laughable how easy it is to listen in on their conversations. Nursing a drink that he’s been sipping at for nearly an hour now Daud continues to mentally note all the pertinent information to be written down later, before the details begin to fade from his memory.

It’s a useful skill, one he used to teach the Whalers back in Rudshore, testing their recollection of key information, and the level of detail in their observation of their targets.

Unfortunately, ignoring the fact that these men seem to have no cares about who might overhear their plans, the plans themselves are alarmingly feasible, assuming of course that they can gather enough resources and support.

Once he has enough information to bring them all down, Daud vows to send it to Corvo Attano. The Royal Protector (and royal father if Daud is right on that hunch) deserves the honour of dealing with these snakes in any way he sees fit.

It’s just as he’s musing on the best way to pass such information to Attano without it immediately being rejected that the hairs on the back of Daud’s neck prick uncomfortably and he realises that he is no longer the only person in the room watching the conspirators.

Flitting his gaze around the room he spots the observer loitering in the shadows in the corner.

And feels his heart stop.

It’s Jenkins.

What the heck is he doing here? Were they looking for him? Was it just a coincidence? Were the Whalers in on the plot against Emily? Or were they, like him, trying to prevent it?

Thankfully, the Whaler doesn’t seem to have spotted him, the boy’s focus is on the very table that Daud had been staking out and no one gives him a second look as he stumbles towards the door and out onto the street, no different to the drunks that stagger out with impressive regularity.

Caught off-guard, hunched over and trying to get his breathing under control Daud is helpless against the now familiar weight of guilt and darkness that comes over him.

Sliding down the wall Daud struggles to hold back the sob that wants to escape, clenches his hands into fists in an effort to quell their sudden shaking and grounds himself in the sharp pain as nails dig in to the soft flesh of his palms. It is not enough, he itches for more.

For a moment he contemplates going back inside and punching the first person he sees, gratefully taking whatever they dish out in return.

Then Amelia’s worried face flashes across his mind.

He can’t, mustn’t.

Forcing himself up and wading through the bog of ghostly voices clamouring words of anger and guilt and loathing, he battles to focus on something else, anything else, in the way that Amelia’s reading always pushes him to think of other things.

He ends up reciting as many Serkonan folk songs as he can remember, and when he runs out he recites them again in Gristolian, then again in Pandyssian.

By the time he gets back to the vineyard the sun is rising, the worst of the urges have faded, and the shapes of his mother’s tongue fill the air with poetry.

~’*’~

1st Day, Month of Darkness, 1840

The clash of blades rings through the vineyard. Stepping back easily into a ready stance Daud eyes his young opponent.

Breathing heavily but grinning, Amelia mirrors him, weight settling comfortably and sword held confidently as she waits for his next strike, curls pulled back and tied away from her face.

Not content with teaching Amelia how to break of various holds and headlocks, Daud has trained her in all manners of self-defence, hand to hand first, then blade work, wanting her to be able to take on any potential assailant and win to ensure her brief kidnapping experience never happened again.

Yet, somehow, no matter what he taught her it never seemed enough.

In a rush of movement he strikes again, but Amelia’s blade is there to meet his and stops the slice in its tracks. Disengaging their swords with a flourish she makes an attack of her own, sweeping lower, aiming for a perceived gap in his guard. He side-steps easily and they are back at square one, both sweating buckets but refusing to back down.

She’s good, Daud will admit that, very good. She even surprises him sometimes by mixing in some street fighting moves that any gentleman would consider less than acceptable in a duel.

A shuffle, another strike.

Amelia ducks beneath the blade and swings her own to block the jab he immediately follows it up with.

Then she does something he does not expect. Instead of leaping back and knocking his sword aside, she steps in instead, dragging her blade along his own until the edge hits the guard of the hilt by his hand and then with a sweeping movement she turns and captures his blade between her arm and her body. As she twists away again he is forced to either release his hold on the sword of risk breaking his arm and he can only watch, frozen in surprise, as his knife clatters to the ground. In a heartbeat, her own blade swipes up and rests ever-so-lightly against his throat.

She’s beaten him. The nagging feeling that his training has not been enough starts to fade.

Disarmed and defeated, Daud swallows heavily. Amelia stares at him with a hardness in her eyes, revelling in her first victory, in having him helpless against her skill. He is alarmed to realise he recognises it. It is the same look he sees every time he catches sight of himself in a mirror.

She looks like a Whaler in that moment, and it _burns_.

Closing his eyes he raises his arms in surrender, to her blade, to the dark truth of his own nature, to the wretched inevitability of it all.

It’s time to accept that despite everything, despite his vows not to, he’s ended up refining her into a weapon.

But that’s not what hurts the most, no, the sharp pain in his chest is because deep down he’s fucking _proud_.

~’*’~

24th Day, Month of Darkness, 1840

With a grunt Daud pulls the weed from the ground, roots and all.

The small walled garden that sits next to the main house, or villa as it now once again looks, is the last of the repair projects for the vineyard. The barns have been repaired, the vineyard tended and weeded, the villa restored, the fences rebuilt.

Rocking back on his heels and setting down his tools Daud searches the plots for any remaining weeds but it looks like he has finally dug them all up. It there’s any he has missed, he has no doubt that the cold of the coming winter will finish them off.

Wiping his brow on his shirt, Daud heads out of the walled garden and drops down onto the ground just outside. From here, the view is spectacular.

Now restored to its former glory the rows of grapevines paint stripes down the hill and beyond is the rugged valley that leads towards Cullero and the sea. On a good, clear day, Daud has sat in this very spot and watched the boats coming in and the glistening in the waves that suggest a whale in lurking beneath the waters.

It’s peaceful, calm.

Everything Dunwall wasn’t. Being here, surrounded by fields and orchards, the beauty and brightness of nature has driven away the soul deep malaise that settled over him in the great capital of the Isles. He had never really realised how _grey_ , how _pale_ Dunwall was, how devoid of life, a chasm of deceit and corruption that had so easily corrupted him, sucking the life out of him, the tan out of his skin, and what little had remained of his innocence out of his body and mind.

Sometimes, he thinks he can see the great smoking chimneys through the haze on the ocean.

The dirt of Dunwall had sunk its claws deep into him. Perhaps he will never be entirely free of the place.

“Mr. Daud, are you finished for the day?” Amelia calls from the house with Marissa's shadow lurking behind her, having finally spotted him resting against the rustic brickwork.

He is, he realises, he is finished, and not just for the day. As he looks around at the results of two years of toil he recognises that there is nothing left for him to do, the repair work is finally complete.

“Dinner?” he calls back when the silence stretches slightly too long and he can hear Amelia’s worried query forming on her tongue. Pulling himself to his feet he looks over as Amelia smiles, reassured, and vanishes back into the villa.

He should feel accomplished, and to an extent he does, but as he makes his way back to his home, his _family_ , still there is something inside him that is hollow, empty and forever unsatisfied.


	7. Six - 1840

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Daud:  
> Admits a secret (or two, or three)  
> Makes a terrible mistake  
> And finds a healthier way of coping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW, this chapter contains imagery the reader may find disturbing. This is also the chapter in which the work tags take proper effect. Please proceed carefully.

~’*’~

1840

~’*’~

26th Day, Month of Hearths, 1840

Jenkins is dead.

Daud know this without a shadow of a doubt. His dreams have been a maelstrom lately, worries about the potential assassination of the Empress stirring up bad memories, flashes of conflict and pain and dead Whalers whose names are burned into his mind. But this he knows for certain.

The Arcane Bond was always a strange and fickle thing, sometimes Daud felt the bond take, other times he felt it break, just like he did when he woke earlier that morning. A sharp spike of agony echoing across the remnants of the bond, then a snap and aching emptiness where a tendril of power used to reach.

Daud remembers how some of the kids took to the bond with ease, others never got further than transversals and Jenkins...

Well, Jenkins had been one of the best of them. The most innocent, if an assassin could ever be described as such. He would have been twenty one. _Too fucking young._

Daud stares at his shaking hands and wonders how many kids have died for him, because of him. A menacing voice at the back of his mind asks how long until its Amelia’s turn.

And to think, back in Rudshore, he had the fucking nerve to feel relieved that it wasn’t him.

It would have been no less than he deserved.

Void.

Daud chokes back tears and gasps to someone who can no longer hear, “I’m sorry Jenkins, I’m so sorry. I should have been there to watch your back as you always watched mine.”

Whoever did this, _those conspirators_ the voice whispers, is going to pay.

The voice whispers again. _This is all your fault._

~’*’~

7th Day, Month of Seeds, 1840

Today is a bad day, a _really_ bad one. Daud know this because he feels like a broken man, struggling each minutes to claw together the shattered remains of his blood-soaked soul.

And the mid-summer sun that beat down like rounds of blows upon the vineyard is nourishing and draining in equal measure. Daud welcomes the discomfort; it reminds him that somewhere under his black heart he is still alive, still human.

With sweat trickling down the back of his neck he surveys all that he has built in the three years since his arrival, the broken farmhouse repaired, the fruits tended, the land revived, peaceful, and thinks with a startling certainty _I do not deserve this_.

A mouse daringly sniffs at his boots, knowing that even if he were capable of moving he would not harm it, could not harm it.

For a time, hours maybe, he sits against the wall of the outhouse weighed down by dark and heavy thoughts, unable to summon up the energy even to shoo away the curious rodent. His mind, always sharp and discerning has always been destructive when the only subject it has is itself and the black mood that struck yesterday and lingered through is possibly the worst he has ever experienced.

He now knows why he could never finish it, because Corvo was right. This is his punishment, to live with the knowledge that he destroyed the last incorruptible things in this world.

The world doesn’t punish wicked people. In the end, they punish themselves.

His dagger sits on his lap, he’s not sure how it got there, only that the gleaming blade is clean, and it shouldn’t be, it has no right to be, not for all the lives it has taken. He watches his hands move in a haze, as though from a distance. Then, just like that, the blade isn’t clean.

Now a trickle of crimson blood stains the steel.

He watches lazily as it drips from the knife to the earth, drops his gaze to his wrist which now holds a delicate slice. It isn’t deep, barely worse than a paper cut and the pain is yet to register. He blinks and another deeper cut has joined it. That’s better. His blade should be soaked with blood, drenched and dripping.

He feels lightheaded, drops the dagger.

Waits.

“Mr. Daud?” The familiar voice startles him out of his stupor. Amelia is back from her trip to Reine. He has no idea how much time has passed.

He doesn’t reply, doesn’t trust his voice, and futilely hopes that she’ll leave him alone. Instead a body drops down heavily beside him in a flurry of ragged clothes and sighs.

“It’s hot out. You mustn’t sit here much longer Mr. Daud, you’ll make yourself sick.”

“Good.” His voice is as cracked and ragged at the parched earth he sits on. Icy sharp eyes turn on him.

“Don’t speak like that Mr. Daud sir, it isn’t right,” the kid is persistent; he’ll give her that, “besides, who’ll feed me if you’re gone huh?”

Daud doesn’t reply to the ribbing, and that’s when she realises something is seriously wrong.

“Mr. Daud?” Amelia leans closer and gasps at the pallor of his skin.

Then she sees the blood.

“Void, fuck!”

“Language.” he mumbles softly, automatically.

A smaller body scrambles across him, grabs the knife and flings it far away from his limp hand, fingers fumble to tear a strip off her sleeve, wrapping it hurriedly around sluggishly clotting cuts, the makeshift bandage is pulled sharply tight. He hisses then, as feeling returns with a jolt and stinging pain lances up his arm.

He still feels lightheaded. He’s lost a lot of blood. _Not enough._

“Mr. Daud?” Amelia voice trembles and when he brings his gaze to meet hers he is faced with tears. “Why… how… did you do this to yourself?”

His daughter chokes words out, concerned, frightened, panicked. His heart aches in his chest. He desperately wants to reassure her, opens his mouth to speak words of comfort.

A broken sob escapes instead.

It’s as though someone has opened the floodgate on years of suffering. His mind has finally reached its breaking point. His pain and self-loathing pours out in agonised tears. He couldn’t stop if it he tried. Regret seeps from the cracks in his soul.

He allows himself to grieve, for all the lives he has taken, all those he has ruined, for the empire that he plunged into chaos just as carelessly as he plunged his sword into the Empress, for the innocent, carefree boy he had once been, for Jenkins, for all the kids sacrificed on the altar of his ego and greed.

And there, in the height of his grief, something deep inside him finally begins to heal.

He comes back to himself to find Amelia cuddled in his lap, her arms wrapped tight around him and her face buried in his chest, murmuring a continuous stream of platitudes.

“You’re ok, it’ll be alright, please don’t leave me…”

He raises a shaking hand to rest upon her hair and her litany stutters to a halt. Glistening eyes lift to meet his own.

“Father?” She sounds so uncertain, so vulnerable, but oh how it lights a spark deep in his heart to finally hear her call him that.

_What has he done?_

He manages a tentative smile.

“I’m alright kid, I’m alright.” It’s a lie, but for the first time in years he begins to believe that maybe, just maybe, one day he will be.

~’*’~

18th Day, Month of Seeds, 1840

The Baskano office that they have commandeered is a kaleidoscope of clean edges and glass.

Daud drums his fingers impatiently on the arm of the chair, feeling distinctly uneasy under the sharp watch of Dr. Alexandria Hypathia. Following what Amelia has since termed _‘The Incident’_ he hasn’t been left alone for more than a few minutes at the time and the lack of privacy is unnerving him almost as much as the thing that had caused it.

The last hour has been an emotional rollercoaster. Hypathia has steadily and painfully extracted his secrets, exposed his shattered psyche and forced him to confront his problems head on. Never one for showing vulnerability in front of someone, part of Daud hates Amelia and Marissa for forcing him into this. Another part of his is immensely grateful.

Now, with everything out in the open, he awaits Hypathia’s diagnosis with a sinking dread.

“Do you think you meant to kill yourself?” Daud jerks at Hypathia’s bluntness, although really he should have been expecting it. She’s been nothing but brutally honest with him. It’s oddly refreshing.

Had he?

The question has bothered him since the veil of depression had lifted and left him with two damning cuts on his wrist, severe blood loss, and an inconsolable daughter. Now, the healing scars are a painful reminder of what the darkness could lead him to do. But although the memories of the time are clouded and distant, he is fairly certain that he hadn’t intended to die.

“No, I don’t think I did,” he responds gruffly after his moment of consideration. Across from him Hypathia nods.

“I agree.” Daud hadn’t expected that and it must show because Hypathia glances down at her notes and explains, “From what we have discussed so far your symptoms conform to the condition I class as depression.” Daud swallows with some difficulty at that, hearing it said aloud makes it feel much more real. “And from what I can gather you have a history of harming yourself, beginning with the fights and ending most recently with the actions that led you here.”

It is an uncomfortable truth. Hypathia meets his gaze unflinchingly.

“Do you know why you feel the need to hurt yourself?”

Daud hesitates, fighting the reluctance to admit the root of his issues in front of a stranger but knowing now that even if it hurt, it would also heal.

“When I’m…” his throat locks up around the word and his hands clench.

“Depressed?” Hypathia offers softly, realising how difficult he’s finding it.

“Depressed,” he manages to choke out, suddenly fighting down tears again and not really understanding why. “I… erm… I feel… I suppose I would describe it as emptiness?” Hypathia nods encouragingly, scribbling down more notes. “I found… by accident at first… that pain filled the emptiness when nothing else could.” A weight lifts from his chest. “Sometimes, as a result, I get this… urge… to hurt myself… and maybe…” He can’t go on.

“You feel you deserve it?” Hypathia asks without judgement. “A way of punishing your actions?”

Daud has to look away from her piercing scrutiny, breathing heavily and trying desperately to hold himself together. Jessamine’s ghostly form flickers in front of his eyes. Hypathia is kind enough to give him the time he needs.

“Yes.” His voice is a broken whisper but the admission, remarkably, helps.

“The path to healing often begins when we admit that there is something that _needs_ healing.” Hypathia, apparently, is a mind reader as well. Daud finds his eyes flicking to her left hand to check but it is most definitely bare of any heretical marks. Hypathia shuffles her notes and considers for a moment.

“I would suggest that you talk through your feelings with someone you trust on a regular basis to help you process and work through your current mental state.” The idea is far from appealing, it has been hard enough sharing information in a professional setting with someone he cannot frighten away.

He does his best to ignore that several people actually come to mind.

“Failing that,” Hypathia continues sliding a blank journal towards him, “write them down instead.”

Daud hesitantly reaches for the journal and picks it up. It feels heavy in his hands with the weight of the words he is yet to burden it with.

“What about the... How do I prevent..?” He gestures towards his bandaged wrist helplessly, unsure how to put it the question into words.

“Different things work for different people,” Hypathia muses, “some find that sensory distraction helps, like holding ice, others prefer taking the energy out on something other than themselves. I have several patients who practice their favourite hobbies. No solution is fool proof, there’ll be times you slip, but equally there’ll be times you resist.”

For a moment she considers him then, much to his confusion, begins to rummage in a draw before placing a small rubber sphere on the table.

“For the time being, it might be worth giving this a try.”

“This?” Daud asks doubtfully, picking up the ball to examine it.

“A stress reliever of sorts,” Hypathia explains, “whenever you get the urge to hurt yourself, you can squeeze it instead, release that pent up energy. It’s small enough to hide in a pocket.”

“And this works?” Daud remains unconvinced.

“Give it a try,” Hypathia urges again as he gives the ball a test squeeze, it’s much harder to compress than he expected and his muscles burn with the strain after a couple of moments, “and you can also try asking yourself a set of questions.”

“Such as?”

“It’s up to you. Use them to work out what triggered the episode, consider your emotional reaction, list the people that care about you. Again, different techniques work for different people. The important thing is that you’ve taken the first step and that’s often the hardest part.”

On that front Daud can completely agree. The session has left him completely exhausted. Yet, despite his reluctance to do this, to seek help, now that he’s faced his problems head on they already feel much easier to overcome.

“Same time next week?” Hypathia asks, pen poised. Daud agrees before he can overthink it and leaves with the stress ball safely tucked away in his pocket.

~’*’~

_21 st Day, Month of Seeds, 1840_

_It’s been a long time since I last put my thoughts down on paper. I have no idea if this is going to help in any way. Maybe it will. Maybe it’ll surprise me. But it’s this or talking and something in me still balks at the thought of sharing thoughts so personal with someone else. So, here goes._

_Something in me broke when I murdered Jessamine Kaldwin, something that I thought impossible to mend._

_I’d wallowed for years, always avoiding confronting the consequences of my actions. I thought I had been ready back then, to face them, to face death, but then Corvo Attano spared my life. It was an eventuality I hadn’t prepared for. I had expected to die that day, perhaps part of me even wanted to, and I can admit to that now, I’ve got the stitches as proof._

_I’m not the same man anymore._

_I guess I’ve finally stopped running from harsh truths, what I did, what I was. From the emotions I had suppressed and buried in years of killing, the grief, and Void do I feel all the lighter for it._

_I’m not fixed, I’m not deluded enough to think that I ever will be, but I’m healing, finding healthier ways of coping. When the black moods hit again, I think this time I’ll be strong enough to fight back, to resist the dark urges that come._

_I have to believe that I can make this right. I'll keep investigating, searching, do everything I can to stop this coup they're planning, avenge Jenkins. It’s too late for him, but not for the others, and I’ll save them if it’s the last thing I do._

_And then there’s Amelia._

_I don’t deserve that girl._

_Admittedly, she’s an annoying little shit a lot of the time, but, well, she’s my daughter and I love her. Guess I can admit that too now._

_I’ve made a vow not to scare her like that again. As much as my depression tries to tear me to pieces, nothing will ever rip my heart from my chest faster than seeing that helpless expression on her face, pleading not to lose the only thing she had left in the world._

_Never again. Not if I can help it._

~’*’~

5th Day, Month of Songs, 1840

Over time, this has become his favourite spot, leaning against the crumbling wall of the garden overlooking the vineyard out to the sea. Especially now, with the sun creeping down the horizon, the view is beautiful and astonishingly calm. It’s in moments like this that he feels he can finally breathe, clear and easy.

There is a gentle thud as a familiar body drops down onto the dusty earth beside him and a moment later a warm pasty is thrust into his face by delicate fingers.

“You’d better not have stolen this,” he growls even as his empty stomach jumps for joy after a long day labouring in the fields and his hands move to extract the food from its paper wrapping.

“Course not,” Amelia replies around a mouth of pastry.

“Manners,” he rebukes promptly and she pointedly swallows before continuing, waving her pasty accusingly toward him. He catches the scent of blood ox on the breeze and his previously enthusiastic stomach rebels, though thankfully today it doesn’t try to force its meagre contents out. Amelia notices immediately and apologetically scoots away a little.

“Paid for it with the coin you gave me,” she grumbles then, noticing how he’s eyeing his lunch suspiciously, “don’t worry yours hasn’t got any meat in it. I asked ‘specially.”

“Huh.” Daud takes a cautious bite and his taste buds are filled with a burst of rich vegetables and melting cheese. He can imagine how well that request went down with the proud meat sellers of Baskano. “How’d you convince them to do that?”

“Told them it was for my father who couldn’t chew right on account of his jaw being broken in a fight decades ago,” Amelia explains after a slight pause, letting some of her old street voice seep back for effect, “they stopped looking so confused after that.”

“Decades,” Daud repeats, turning his sharp gaze on her, “you’ve been pinching my books again haven’t you?” Amelia gives him a sheepish smile.

“Only the ones you said I could,” she admits with a shrug, “reading isn’t all that bad.”

That much is true, Amelia has been tearing through his small library, replacing her thirst for adventure with a thirst for words, for knowledge, starting with the sparse collection he has on medical care. _The Incident_ seems to have awakened the bookworm in her for which Daud is glad. As coping methods go, it’s one of the better, healthy even. Besides, he’s always valued learning.

Pulling away from his thoughts he hums softly in response and for a while they just watch over the vineyard, finishing their dinners in companionable, comfortable silence.

“Are you alright?” Amelia breaks the peace first, carefully folding the paper bag and tucking it away in her pocket. It’s become a tradition of hers to ask whenever he’s too quiet, treading carefully around him ever since _The Incident_.

“I’m fine.”

And much to his surprise, he means it.

The next words escape before he can think them through, but perhaps it is finally time to let this secret out of the bag, Void knows the kid has earned it.

“Daud is actually my first name.”

Amelia stops dead, whipping her head around, her wide eyes stare at him in shocked surprise.

“No fucking way.”

“Language,” he growls in response, but there’s no bite to it, not really. It’s become their little in-joke. Amelia shakes herself out of her daze quickly and he can practically hear the gears turning.

“So what’s your last name then?” With an exasperated groan he drops his head into his hands, massaging his forehead against the sudden oncoming headache. To this day he can’t understand how someone can be so endearing and frustrating simultaneously.

But Amelia is grinning at him and he feels the corners of his mouth tug upwards in reply and then he’s chuckling, laughing, pulling his daughter into his side in a one-armed hug, teasingly ruffling her hair.

He’s happy; really, honestly, truly happy.

~’*’~

He should have known it couldn’t last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus Daud comes full circle.  
> I realise that the medical knowledge / coping methods mentioned may be anachronistic for the time period / setting but Dishonored is fictional so I thought I might stretch the rules a bit.  
> Also I'm off on holiday for a week as of Saturday so I'm hoping to get the final chapter up before then :)


	8. Post Script - 1841

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Daud:  
> Faces the consequences of his actions  
> Finds peace with himself  
> And ends up Royal Spymaster (much to his surprise)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it. We have reached the end.  
> A massive THANK YOU for everyone who has read, left kudos, commented and recommended this little story. Your support means more than you can know.  
> Slight warning for light description of corporal punishment.

~’*’~

Post Script - 1841

~’*’~

28th Day, Month of Nets, 1841

The seal of the Royal Protector stares accusingly up at him. Since its arrival the previous day Daud hasn’t been able to bring himself to open it.

When he had sent the folder of information about the conspiracy to Attano with the bottle of wine, compiled and added to over the previous few months, he had not been expecting a response beyond action against the conspirators. Not a bottle of whiskey, and certainly not an ominous letter.

“You did say we were going to visit Dunwall,” Amelia observes from beside him.

“I didn’t mean like this,” he barks, glaring at the letter as though he can make it disappear through sheer force of will.

Eventually, though, he caves and unfolds the letter with nervous hands.

_Daud,_

_Her Majesty, Empress Emily Kaldwin, requests your presence at Dunwall Tower at your earliest convenience._

_Lord Corvo Attano,_

_Royal Protector_

However it is phrased; Daud understands. This is not a request, and there is nothing he can do but answer it.

~’*’~

17th Day, Month of Rain, 1841

Daud takes a long deep breath of the clean sea air, determined to enjoy it whilst it lasts. A week and a half out from Cullero and he fancies he can see Dunwall’s smog in the distance already, though he does his best to reign in his anxiety about returning to the city of his corruption around Amelia.

Amelia, who had argued until her throat was hoarse that she should come with him, Amelia, who always manages to get her away, Amelia, who is spending every possible moment up on deck, tearing around and charming the crew.

He has no doubt that the sailors would obey every command she gave. It’s a talent that he never really had a knack for.

Today, though, Amelia is particularly excited and he’s woken from his daydreams by her bundling into his side and brightly announcing that there’s a good chance they’ll see whales today.

Void does he wish he hadn’t let her read about the whales.

For the next hour or so he contents himself with watching Amelia chat to the crew and cast wistful eyes out across the ocean, keeping half an eye on making sure she doesn’t get too close to the edge.

He’s almost dozed off to the soothing rocking of the ship and the mid-afternoon heat when the shout goes up.

“Whale ahoy!”

Then Amelia is grabbing his hand and yanking him to his feet, her face flushed with anticipation as she pulls him towards the speaker. Together they lean against the side of the ship and look out to sea.

For a moment there is nothing and he can feel Amelia deflate beside him.

Then, with an almighty crash a whale emerges out of the water so close to the ship that Daud feels he could reach out and touch it. The giant tail blocks the sun briefly as it flips up, coating the spectators in a spray of icy ocean water.

Amelia squeals in joy.

Caught up as he is in the sheer delight in Amelia’s voice at her first real glimpse of the great leviathans of the sea that it takes Daud a moment to realise that he’s no longer watching a whale on the waves, but instead a whale floating through the azure mists of the Void.

“Daud, my old friend.”

The familiar voice comes from just behind his right shoulder, close enough that the deity’s presence is tangible. He doesn’t need to glance over to know that the Outsider is watching the whale too.

“Did you foresee this?” Daud asks softly as the god comes to stand beside him, settling calmly into a relaxed pose in his peripheral vision. The Mark sings on his hand, calling to its master.

“I foresaw many things, Daud,” the Outsider muses gently, “many paths, predictable ones, boring ones, but once again you have proven worthy of my attention.”

“Glad to be of assistance.” Daud’s voice is gruff but without the bite that usually encompassed his encounters with the whale god. For a moment they stand in companionable stillness.

“Do you believe that you can ever atone for the murder of an Empress?” The Outsider’s voice, usually so belittling, actually sounds intrigued. It’s almost enough to make Daud turn his attention away from the singing whales.

“No,” Daud answers truthfully, “I can only accept the consequences, whatever they may be.”

With a whoosh of displaced air the Outsider vanishes and reforms on his other side. Used to the god flickering in and out of existence Daud doesn’t react beyond a small sigh at the dramatics. Then he unexpectedly feels a ghostly cold hand encircle his wrist and jumps instinctively, eyes shooting up to stare at the deity. Never before has the Outsider made physical contact.

The Outsider, however, seems unconcerned about his response, or about the abnormality of his action, choosing instead to trace otherworldly fingers over the self-inflicted scars with a softness that belies his power, brows furrowed, black eyes focused on the evidence of Daud’s brokenness. His own gaze fixed on the god’s expression Daud barely contains a noise of surprise at the sorrowful look that flashes through the mask.

Abruptly the Outsider drops his hand and turns away, seemingly satisfied with his examination, wandering to the edge of their little floating island and turning his attention back to the whale. Daud feels the loss of contact keenly, a sudden and aching emptiness.

“Did you know that all departed souls pass through the Void Daud? Each creature has its time, a set length of rope. I once thought you were running out.” A pause. “For what it’s worth I’m glad I was wrong.”

Daud moves to stand by the Outsider’s side, looking out over the vastly of the Void, finding his eyes filling with unexpected tears.

“It’s worth more than you think.” For a moment god and man share a look, even as his surrounding begin to melt away.

“And yet you decide to leave the end up to Corvo and Emily.”

The next words are but a reverent whisper, awed even, fading with the floating islands.

“ _That’s courage_.”

~’*’~

9th Day, Month of Wind, 1841

Emily Kaldwin was ten years old when he killed her mother. She’s fourteen now. And by the Void does she look like Jessamine. It’s so startling that when Daud first lays his eyes on the Empress of the Isles his hand clenches around the ball in his pocket involuntarily, the burning of his muscles distracting him from the sudden urge to hurt.

The guard that warily escorted them inside backs away slowly, the door swinging shut behind them sounds deafening in the sudden silence.

Daud is not worried about the guards. Daud is worried about a much greater threat, one that is standing two steps behind and one to the right of the Empress, one who brought down a coup without a drop of blood on his hands. He finds himself stepping in front of Amelia protectively.

It is clear that neither Emily Kaldwin nor Corvo Attano were expecting him to have company.

No one speaks. Daud waits respectfully. In this, it is only right that Emily have the first say.

The young Empress turns to her Royal Protector but she does not say anything, it turns out she doesn’t need to because suddenly Attano’s hands are a flurry of movement that Daud vaguely recognises as sign language.

“Daud,” Emily’s voice is older now, cultured, it resounds with a hint of command, “it has been brought to my attention that you were instrumental in preventing an attempt on my life. Is this true?”

“It is, your Majesty,” Daud replies, wrong-footed by her choice of words where he had expected anger and condemnation.

“And who,” Emily continues addressing the elephant in the room and a promptness that Daud admires, “might I ask, is your companion?”

Daud hesitates, hopes, prays.

“Amelia Costella, your Majesty, my daughter.”

“Daughter?” Emily breaks composure in surprise at his response. Thankfully Amelia has heeded his earlier advice and remains silent.

“Yes, your Majesty.” There is another hurried moving of hands as Empress and Protector converse. Then Emily calms and draws herself up once more to playing an Empress much older and wiser than she should have to be.

“We extend our welcome to Amelia Costella,” Emily announces and Daud sags in relief as Amelia bows her head respectfully to her Empress, “but, whilst we are grateful for your intervention in this case we must also address your crimes.”

Daud’s heart stops, his breath freezes and the temperature of the room seems to drop several degrees. Emily’s pronouncement is what he both feared and expected when he opened the letter just over a month ago.

Up on the dais Emily and Corvo share a meaningful look.

“You are accused of murder and treason, the sentence for which is death.” Daud lets his gaze drop, trembling.

“No, please no!” Amelia, it turns out, can no longer stand by and watch and she turns her impassioned gaze to the Empress. “Your Majesty, whatever my father has done, he has spent the last four years atoning for it. He has worked hard to build a new life away from violence and corruption and has punished himself more than ten years in prison could.” There are tears in her voice now. “Please, I beg you, spare his life. He’s all I have left.”

Emily is staring at Amelia in shock, perhaps that someone would dare speak back to her, perhaps because she never expected someone to plea so passionately for the life of the Knife of Dunwall. Daud fears that Amelia has just endangered herself and he will do anything to prevent that. Just as he prepares to make a plea of his own Emily’s silent conference with Attano ends and she speaks before he can draw the breath.

“What do you say to this Daud?”

“My life is yours, to do with as you will. I ask only that you spare my daughter, she is innocent of my crimes and does not deserve to be punished for them,” Daud responds more honestly than he has about anything in his life.

The silence stretches in a way that suggests Emily is once again seeking Attano’s advice. He does not dare look up, does not want to see which emotion is filling the eyes of the Empress.

“You shall be taken to Coldridge Prison whilst we consider your case further,” Emily finally proclaims, “Amelia Costella shall remain in the Tower as my guest.”

It is more than he hoped for and certainly more than he deserves.

As the guards take him away he keeps his eyes fixed on Amelia’s distraught face and wishes only that he would have the chance to say everything he needs to say to his daughter before the end.

~’*’~

1st Day, Month of Darkness, 1841

Coldridge Prison is about as pleasant as Daud remembers from his break in four years ago, though thankfully Attano keeps a tighter leash on the guards and the food provided is actually an improvement on the gruel he anticipated so despite the chains and the heavy black thoughts that frequent accost him Daud has actually been treated well. He’s even been allowed to keep his own clothes, including the wrap around his hand covering his Mark, though he suspect’s Attano’s work in that judging by the matching wrap on the hand of the Lord Protector.

Amelia has even been allowed to visit and every other day without fail she is escorted in by guards she seems to have managed to charm just as easily as she did the sailors and they sit and talk.

She knows everything now. Who he was, what he did, and still she looks at with without a trace of disgust or horror. That alone gives him the strength to face each day. So when he hears the door to the block clanging open he sits up and glances over, expecting to see his daughter through the bars of his cell.

He is faced with Corvo Attano instead.

The Royal Protector doesn’t speak, Daud doesn’t expect him to. Instead he passes an official letter through the bars bearing the seal of the Empress.

So, his fate has been decided. He doesn't want to die. He's not ready to die.

No point delaying the inevitable. With shaking hands he breaks the seal and unfolds the letter.

_In punishment for his crimes and in recognition of his efforts to atone for his actions, Her Majesty Empress Emily Kaldwin, in her great mercy, commutes the sentence of death in this case and instead decrees the prisoner receive twenty lashes, to be carried out immediately._

It takes a moment to sink in and then Daud is overcome with a bone shaking relief, his knees give out and he slides down the wall, shaking and clutching his redemption.

He’s not going to die.

_He's not going to die._

Attano is polite enough to allow him time to recompose himself before knocking lightly on the bars to get his attention. Two guards stand nervously behind him, one bears handcuffs, the other a whip.

Daud goes quietly out with them to the yard. It is empty, which surprises him slightly, he had expected the Empress to make a spectacle of this but it appears he underestimated the mercy of Emily Kaldwin. Stripped of his shirt and handcuffed to the post Daud hears the two guards retreat.

It’s just him and Corvo now.

For a man of Corvo’s strength the strokes are light, and the Lord Protector, who has every right to want to hurt him, keeps the hits regular and fair. Daud takes them all without a single noise of complaint.

~’*’~

4th Day, Month of Darkness, 1841

Daud wakes slowly.

He doesn’t remember much of the time since blackness enveloped him in the yard of Coldridge Prison, though what snatches he can recall are confusing and disorientating.

He remembers being carried, being laid gently down on his front, calloused hands cleaning his wounds and soothing the fiery pain with ice.

He remembers Amelia’s gentle voice comforting him, her hands encompassing his.

He remembers soft pillows, the sound of turning pages, the smell of gunpowder and coffee.

He opens his eyes and finds that the last of these things at least was not a dream.

Laid on his side in soft covers, Daud immediately recognises the room as one of the guest chambers in the Tower and Corvo Attano is indeed sat in a chair beside the bed, reading, though he looks up as Daud sits up with a wince and a shuffle.

“Attano, what?” Nothing makes sense. Corvo puts the book down and raises his hands.

_You understand sign?_

It takes Daud a moment to dig through his memory.

“Yes, what…” Corvo’s raised hand cuts off his confused questioning.

_How do you feel?_

Is that worry in Attano’s eyes? It can’t be.

“Fine,” surprisingly he does, the wounds on his back protest at movement but it is nothing more than a harsh ache as they have been tended to with care. Attano runs appraising eyes over him briefly then:

_Good. Get dressed. The Empress wants to see you._

Still caught up in shocked confusion Daud obeys without question and follows as Corvo leads him back to the throne room. As they pass through the doors Daud sees Amelia move away from where she was apparently conversing with the young Kaldwin and Emily immediately straightens and puts on an expression suitable for an Empress.

Corvo moves to stand in his customary position behind Emily, Amelia comes down to stand by his side.

There is a long silence. Daud’s back itches but he doesn’t dare shift.

Then the Empress begins to speak and her words are the last thing Daud expected to hear.

“The position of Royal Spymaster has been empty since the arrest of the traitor, Burrows,” Emily begins, “we believe you are the person most suited to fill this role.”

Daud cannot contain his shock and he breaks protocol to look up at the Empress. Two sets of identical eyes meet his, one cool and calculating, the other determined. There is no resentment. No anger. He doesn’t understand.

Beside him Amelia is smiling as though she knew this was the plan all along. A glance back at the Royal Protector shows a smile beginning to form on Attano’s face too, clearly amused at his continued bemusement.

Calming Daud realises he has a decision to make. One that will shape his future, Amelia’s future. Though really, it’s not a decision at all. This is a chance to redeem himself, to prove that he is capable of change, to accept mercy and forgiveness he doesn’t deserve and to work to earn it every day for the rest of his life.

What better way to atone for killing an Empress than by spending each and every day saving another?

Bowing low, ignoring the ache across his back Daud addresses the daughter of the women he murdered for a handful of coin.

“It would be my honour, Your Majesty.”

~’*’~

_Who is the third who walks always beside you?  / When I count, there are only you and I together / But when I look ahead up the white road  / There is always another one walking beside you  / Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded  / I do not know whether a man or a woman / But who is that on the other side of you?_

Is it a spirit not yet laid to rest?

If I looked hard enough, would I see the old Empress in a blood-stained dress?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we have it, Daud's kind-of happy ending.  
> I hope you've all enjoyed reading as much and I've enjoyed writing.  
> The quote at the end is taken from T. S. Eliot's _The Waste Land_  
>  And yes, I did pinch a little bit of the Outsider's speech from the high chaos end of the Brigmore Witches. Despite being a low-chaos player at heart I absolutely loved the way these few lines were written and delievered.  
>  _With the end coming, you cut a savage swath through Dunwall, blood and terror, for the fate of the Empire. A story never to be told. And you leave the ending up to Corvo? That's courage. You make your own choice, and accept the price._  
>  Especially the line 'that's courage', the way in which it's said always makes me feel like the Outsider is impressed, proud even. So I wanted to get a sense of that across.  
> Anyway enough rambling from me. Thanks again to all who have read The Waste Land!  
> ashestodusters x


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